


The Guild

by BananaStickers



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - The Payment, Basically Every NHL Goalie, Blowjobs, Campfires, Dirty Talk, Drunken Shenanigans, Edging, Fireworks, Gay Sex, Goalie Coaching, Goalie Guild, Goofiness, Hate Sex, M/M, Makeup, Open Relationships, Past Abuse Stories, Retired Goalies, Rimming, Secret Society, Sex in the woods, Slash Incoming, Threesomes, drug usage, drunken games, gagging, poppers, taking requests, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-11-29 01:32:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11430387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: Unbeknownst to skaters, the goalies in the NHL are part of a secret society known as "The Guild" or "The Goalie Guild".  Every summer, they hold a meeting.  Official Guild business happens, of course...but so does everything else.  Drunken sexy shenanigans with the goalies of the league?  Oh yes.Requests are now CLOSED but I'll probably be doing this next summer, too, so feel free to think of some favorite pairings.Note that each chapter can, for the most part, be read individually, if you're not interested in reading the entire work, as each chapter is basically its own fic.  Chapter titles will inform you of its content.NEWEST CHAPTER: Carey Price / Henrik Lundqvist.  Lingerie.  Cocaine.





	1. Intro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this is part of an AU I've created, and a lot of this first chapter is world-building / official Guild business. You don't need to know the universe to read this, I don't think; the only other major AU piece of this universe is The Payment. (When a team wins a playoff series, they can choose a player on the opposing team to punish.)
> 
> That being said, if you're ready to jump into shenanigans and slash, this chapter is not it. We are still on "official Guild business".
> 
> Note that certain goalies have already been introduced in this world and are referred to by their Guild nicknames. What are Guild nicknames? Well, much like James Bond, the goalies decided if they're going to have a secret society, they're going to have awesome secret nicknames to match. Some of them take these very seriously. Others think they're silly. But everybody gets one.
> 
> Marc-Andre Fleury : Dolphin  
> Carey Price : Showcase  
> Braden Holtby : McCoy  
> Sergei Bobrovsky : Pinkerton
> 
> Additional information about requests at the end.
> 
> Also note, nearly all references to past events can be read in previous fics! Enjoy!

It had been a hot summer thus far in Pittsburgh. Marc-Andre Fleury had considered himself lucky that his lot in life was not to be a mover, watching those workers unpack his house, place everything on a truck for the move to Vegas. Watching them sweat, the step from the cool air-conditioned house to the outdoors like stepping into an oven. He tipped them well, but he knew it was still a grueling job.

That was yesterday, and now his entire house would be empty, just waiting on him for a quick walk through and confirmation that yes, everything was out, no damage had been done, that those four walls and roof and patio and pool would never see him again.

But that walk through would not happen today. Today, he sat outside under an umbrella, and thanked the hockey gods that today was cloudy and cooler than most of the week had been. He'd gotten up early to drive an hour outside of Pittsburgh to a private retreat. For the next few days, this converted religious seminary turned private club would host the NHL's Goalie Guild annual meeting. It wasn't the swankiest club Fleury had ever been to, but it was remote and private and they could throw one hell of a rager with no cameras, prying eyes, or complaining neighbors.

After official business had been tended to, of course.

"Do we have to come here next year, too? Jesus Christ," Carey Price had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, dropping down next to Fleury on the couch. Despite being not quite 10a, he had a half-empty margarita in his hand.

"Maybe you should try winning, and then you get to pick the place," Fleury shot back, grabbing the margarita and taking a sip, to the other man's protests. The goalies who won the Cup always got to choose the next year's retreat location; as the winner last year, he and Matt Murray had elected for Pittsburgh. And since they won this round as well, they'd get to choose next year's location, as well. "But maybe we do Vegas instead, next year."

"That'll be even hotter. But more shit to do, at least," Price noted, popping his feet up on the ottoman stretched in front of them. "So how did your Payments go this year?"

"Always looking for more gossip, you old queen?"

Carey looked mortally wounded. "First off, I am not old. Second off, I've told you a million times I like women. And men, but also women. What sort of person would I be if I denied half the population the chance to get with _this?"_ He gestured to himself grandly.

Marc-Andre pretended to gag. "You can be queen even if you're bi, you old queen." Before Price could respond, their attention was turned to a figure approaching the front doors. "Look Showcase, it's your favorite."

Henrik Lundqvist grinned as he spotted the pair, tipping his hat as he moved past. "Mornin', boys," he boomed, sliding into what used to be the seminary's chapel, all stone and stained glass. Marc-Andre waved enthusiastically, and Carey plastered a smile on his face, turning to Fleury when Lundqvist was out of sight.

"I hate that guy."

Marc-Andre rolled his eyes, glancing at the now-empty margarita in Price's hand. He was going to need one before too long. "You only hate him because people think he's prettier than you are, and just as good of a goalie to boot."

"No! He - "

"Spare me," Fleury shushed, not wanting to hear yet another story about how Henrik had somehow wronged the Canadien in random ridiculous ways, like, _he didn't talk to me in warm ups,_ or, _he didn't shake my hand long enough in the handshake line,_ or, well, whatever.

Carey looked like he'd just swallowed something sour at the rebuke, but his face smoothed out after a minute. "Anyway, we were talking about your Payments."

"No, you were asking, I wasn't talking about them at all." Fleury sighed after a long moment of expectant silence from Price. "Fine. We hooked up Guentzel and Forsberg after the Nashville series. That was fun."

"Uh huh."

"We made Bobby Ryan dress in a tiny Speedo and bow tie and serve us drinks and give us massages and shit after Ottawa. I made him slow dance with me. He was so awkward, it was _amazing."_ At this, Price barked a laugh, looking delighted.

"That fucking guy. Good, he deserves it. And please, you can't leave it there. Spare no details, my friend."

Marc-Andre smirked, launching into the story to the delight of the other goaltender. He was just getting to the part about Hornqvist's dirty talking Bobby while he was cleaning drinks off the floor _with his tongue_ when his eye caught movement and he glanced up. He'd been so involved in the story that Braden Holtby was nearly upon them, looking delighted.

"Dolphin!" He hauled Fleury off the couch, giving him two very French-esque pecks on the cheek, one each side. That was certainly a first between them. Marc-Andre briefly wondered what the Cap would do if he turned his head, caught one of those kisses on the mouth like they'd shared just a number of weeks before. Instead, he just grinned.

"McCoy. How's that golf game of yours been?" With a groan, Braden pushed his open palm into Marc-Andre's face and shoved him back down onto the couch. He seemed to finally notice Carey and gave him a smile too, extending his hand for a shake.

"Showcase, you shouldn't hang around with this guy, he'd a bad influence." He started heading off without waiting for a response. "Jesus, I need a beer. See you guys at the meeting."

Fleury did not need to look at Price to know exactly the expression the other man was wearing. Sure enough, a tight hand gripped his shoulder once Holtby slipped inside the doors, and Carey leaned in excitedly. "You _fucked!"_ he whispered - well, a Carey Price whisper, which wasn't really a whisper at all, more of a loud hiss. "That was your Caps payment! Holy shit, Dolphin!"

"Ugh." Fleury reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Carey Price was remarkably astute about body language, and who was gay or bi or just willing to accept a blowjob from time to time, and who was fucking who; even if Flower denied it, Carey would never believe it. "Fine. Yes. But you _cannot tell anyone,"_ he practically had to shout over Price's excited babbles.

"I want more - "

" - details," Fleury finished for him. "Of course you do. But we can talk later." Fleury nodded his head at the sudden influx of cars as the meeting start was looming imminent. Pekka Rinne and Juuse Saros were sliding out of the same luxury sedan; Roberto Luongo was seemingly magnetic, drawing a laughing audience as he walked slowly, telling some story or another. The two Jets goalies lingered around their car, clearly nervous, as both of them were set to be inducted into the Guild this year. Also, it looked like Bobrovsky was arriving, and he really didn't want to talk about that situation. Not yet. "Let's go inside. Now _I_ need a drink."

~~~~~

Once inside, and with scotch in hand, Marc-Andre Fleury took a seat next to his now-former goaltending partner and smiled fondly at him. He remembered last year when he had the privilege to inform Murray about the Guild and its rules as an early inductee.

The Goalie Guild, he'd told Murray, was a secret club of NHL goalies with a long and proud history. Formed shortly after the league itself as an informal group, the goalies had originally simply been looking for companionship playing a crazy position without masks. It morphed into something a little more organized in the 50s, as goalie coaches were still non-existent, and everyone gathered once every few years to talk gear and positional strategies. The Guild was formalized with rules and a yearly meeting in the 70s, shortly after masks took off, and has been going strong ever since. Nowadays the Guild continued to speak on gear and positional strategies, but also about coaches, front office staff, The Payment, and dangerous players whom they'd hoped to drive out of the league for everyone's safety.

To be inducted, a goalie had to have 82 games played in the NHL, or one full season's worth. The rules were tweaked slightly with Patrick Roy's first Stanley Cup, allowing goalies who won the championship as a starter immediate access, even without the required number of games. Roy, Ron Hextall, Cam Ward, Antti Niemi and now Matt Murray were the only early inductees to date. Once inducted, each goalie received a code name, to be known only to fellow Guild members. Although Murray was officially inducted last year, his nickname would be given this year; there simply wasn't enough games played under his belt last year to come up with a good one. Each Guild member offered suggestions on nicknames, but the final choice was Fleury's, being his goalie partner and mentor. He hoped Matt would like what was chosen.

Once inducted, to continue attending meetings, you had to play a minimum of one NHL game that year; be a team's goalie coach; or be inducted into the Hall of Fame. Sometimes Marc-Andre wished that last stipulation wasn't true. Ed Belfour had a habit of showing up and getting inappropriately drunk and obnoxious, although he didn't see the man here yet this year, thank god. And nobody _really_ liked Patrick Roy that much. Fleury suspected that's why Roy kept attending these meetings, just to piss everyone off. Still, it was exciting to see Rogie Vachon, who at 71 had been inducted into the Hall just last year and was finally attending his first Guild meeting again after 30-some years. He looked delighted, sipping on some coffee and chatting with the Wild goalies.

"You excited about your nickname reveal?" Fleury asked after a round of greetings. Matt grinned nervously.

"You pick me a good one?"

"No, it's awful."

Murray pretended to sigh. "Figures."

"Well, it's not the worst this year," Marc-Andre replied cheerfully, toasting him with his scotch. "Pickard is going to freak out."

"Hey! Everyone take a seat and shaddup, we're going to get started," Cory Schneider was at the front of the room now, banging a gavel against a podium. Schneider was currently the de facto President / organizer of the Guild. Nobody really wanted that job, but there were certain perks that came with it. Declaring orders with the gavel, both official business and drunkenly in the after party, was just one of them. The position was open to any goalie with at least 250 NHL games under their belt, so Marc-Andre was eligible, but no way in hell was he taking that on. "First order of business - inductions! We have 8 inductions to the Guild this year and one nickname being given to an early inductee." Fleury elbowed Matt in the side, as if he didn't know Cory was referring to him, as the room clapped. "Let's do the name first, then we'll induct in alphabetical order of teams, starting with the Ducks. Dolphin, the floor is yours."

Marc-Andre didn't bother to put down his scotch, instead wandering to the front of the room and tipping his glass to the gathered goalies. "First, I want to congratulate Matt Murray for being one of our few early inductees, along with the reason we are all here in Pittsburgh this year, _and_ the reason we are probably going to be back here next year!" The group groaned good-naturedly. Someone threw a balled-up napkin towards Fleury, and he was pretty sure it came from Holtby. "You know, not everyone can go back to back as a rookie. Actually...I think Matt is first to do it ever. So I start to think, repeat, how can we get that into a nickname? Then I think of syndication. Reruns on TV, you know. So I think singular form of syndication, which is syndicate, and realize it also means a secret organization, which I think is very fitting. So. _Syndicate!"_

Amidst the cheers, Patrick Roy interjected, "You know syndication doesn't actually mean re-runs, it means a type of licensing - "

_"Shut the fuck up, Dante,"_ Martin Brodeur screamed from the back, utilizing Roy's nickname, and Fleury could have kissed the ex-Devil at that moment. He was attending this year for the first time in a long time as the acting Blues goalie coach, but since he was quitting to join the front office, he'd be ineligible to come back to the Guild meetings til he was inducted into the Hall, which would surely happen at some point. He, of anyone in the room, was the least afraid to ruffle feathers and piss people off, knowing he wouldn't be back for some time. Marc-Andre also had a feeling he wasn't afraid to annoy Roy regardless of his future attendance.

Fleury raised his glass to Brodeur who winked back, then took his seat again next to Murray who looked a little pensive. Uh oh. "What's wrong?"

"Well," Murray whispered, "It's a great nickname. I'm just afraid, uh...won't people shorten it to _Syndi?"_ He pronounced it like the women's name, looking slightly concerned.

"Nah. We generally don't shorten code names unless you want it to. I mean, look at Pinkerton; nobody calls him Pink because he gets awfully grumpy if you do. Besides, wouldn't it just be shortened to Syn?"

"Oh yeah," Matt replied, looking a little more relieved as Jonathan Bernier took the floor to induct John Gibson.

"Johnny, your new nickname is _Flynn,"_ Bernier announced. Seeing some confusion, he continued, "You're so damn smart, man. So look, we tried to think about hockey IQ, right? Einstein, or Mensa or something? Nothing seemed right. Well, there's something called the Flynn effect that basically says people keep getting smarter. Like, you new guys are smarter than us old guys kinda thing. Which is totally true. Look at our currently active games played leader and tell me that's not true."

"Fuck off," Roberto Luongo piped up from the back, cheerful and already a little drunk. "I mean, he's not wrong, but fuck off anyway."

Bernier laughed. "Plus, you're in fucking love with that TRON movie, so...it's fitting. I'm gonna miss playing with you, bud."

Next up was Semyon Varlamov to induct Calvin Pickard. He had a mean smirk on his face, and Fleury scowled, took a drink. He didn't much like the Av. _"Enterprise,"_ he said, with no further fanfare or explanation.

"Oh, no. Don't tell me - "

Varlamov laughed loudly, cutting off Pickard's protests. "You know, like Captain Picard of the Enterprise thing? Plus, you're so... _enterprising,"_ he flourished while the room booed.

From the look on Calvin's face, Fleury knew he'd endured Star Trek jokes for far too long. But at least Enterprise wasn't a terrible name. It could have been much worse. Semyon really wanted to go with Borg for a long time before being told under no conditions would that be accepted. Marc-Andre reached forward and patted his new goaltending partner on the shoulder, which earned him a thin smile.

Pekka Rinne was next, for Juuse Saros. "Little Bear, I am sorry we were unable to win it all this year. But I know you have many successful years in front of you. And so your nickname. Little Bear is also the constellation Ursa Minor. Therefore your nickname will be _Polaris._ Our north star." Pekka beamed at Juuse who grinned right back, and if Marc-Andre didn't know any better he'd think they were fucking. He clapped long and loud for the pair with everyone else.

He snuck a glance over at Price as Lundqvist bounced to the front of the room, relishing the shitty look on the Canadiens' face. "Alrighty boys, I am here to induct a fine net minder, Antti Raanta! First, let me just say I will miss you very much, but I think you're gonna get the chance to _own_ that fucking net now, so I can't be too sad. Anyway...I know for a long time you had Rantanplan on your mask. That's the dog, it's a Belgian cartoon, for those of you that don't know. Anyway, Rantanplan always chased after these criminals based on the Dalton Gang. And what's a famous movie based on the Dalton Gang?" Lundqvist looked annoyed when nobody answered. "Alright, well, I make sure my goalie partners have the best damn nicknames. So yours is _Desperado!"_

Marc-Andre had to admit that was pretty cool.

The Ottawa Senators were next. Craig Anderson was smiling, looking a little nervous. "Mike Condon. So excited to have you here, buddy. Nobody deserves this more than you. So, I know you had a couple internships on Wall Street before you decided to try your hand at this hockey thing full time. So I wanted to do something around Wall Street, but what? Then I saw the movie Trading Places, and... _Duke._ You started from the bottom, and now you're here."

Once again, Roy had to speak up. "The Dukes were the rich bad guys in that movie. The guy starting from the bottom was....Valentine, I think."

Anderson gave a tight smile, turned to Condon. "Condi, you want your nickname to be Valentine?"

"Duke is good."

"That's what I thought."

Next was Jake Allen's turn. "Guys, I ain't as fancy as the rest of you. Carter Hutton is funny as fuck and is obsessed with that movie Super Troopers. So he's getting the name _Shenanigans."_

"The next person to say Shenanigans is going to get pistol whipped!" Roberto Luongo called out, and the room descended into chaos with half the room suddenly playing the meow game from the movie.

Schneider, in the front, had his hand over his face in frustration, and had to slam his gavel for the next 10 seconds before people shut up. "Get drunk later and do this shit, okay guys? Tampa next. Blitzkrieg, you're doing this one, right?"

"It's me," Ben Bishop agreed; although he was no longer on the Lightning, he'd still been with Vasilevskiy the longest. "Andrei, we gotta continue with the bad ass lightning themed named for Tampa Bay goalies. You have Zeus on your helmet, but that's too obvious. So instead, you'll share your name with the Slavic Zeus, who is called _Perun."_

Ondrej Pavelec was called on to induct both Winnipeg Jets goalies this year. Fleury knew it was a bit of a sore spot for him, being stuck in the AHL in the depth charts this year and having played literally just the single game that qualified him to still attend the Guild. Still, he looked cheerful, with this summer's trade to the Rangers giving him new life. "How often does a guy get to induct _two_ great goalies? And Hellebuyck with exactly 82 games. Skin of his teeth. So, Connor first: you're _Rama._ It's a play off your nickname Hellboy; that's part of his real name." 

Fleury noted that Ondrej did _not_ continue on and say that Rama was also the avatar of the Hindu deity Vishnu, which was fitting because Hellebuyck considered himself the goddamn center of the universe sometimes, so the Guild had agreed the nickname was perfect. Pavelec turned to Hutchinson next. "Hutch, yours is _Timber._ Your legs are like damn tree trunks and look, if you're gonna have a nickname like 'Hutch', that's what you get."

Behind him, Luongo started humming that Pitbull song before falling silent at Schneider's withering look.

"I think that's all the inductions this year," Cory said once Ondrej found his seat again. "I also want to welcome Rogie Vachon back to the Guild meetings since being inducted to the Hall of Fame. Rogie's Guild name is _Bang Bang,_ so everyone make sure to stop and say hello. Right now I need a beer, so...we're gonna take a break. I swear if you guys aren't back in 15 minutes, shit is going down, so just...be back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now taking requests for scenes. I can't guarantee the scene will be sexy time, as not all goalies in this world are gay or bi. But I'll do my best to accommodate.
> 
> Feel free to get specific ("I want to see someone wearing lingerie and I don't care who" or "X/X BDSM scene").
> 
> I'll also happily take non-sex scene requests ("X/X fight" or "X/X talks about who on the team they'd totally fuck" kind of thing).
> 
> There are certain goalies who HAVE NOT fulfilled the 82 game requirement and thus are not yet attending the Guild. The popular ones are:
> 
> Louis Domingue  
> Anders Nilsson  
> Scott Darling  
> Reto Berra  
> Jean-Francoise Berube  
> Aaron Dell  
> Philipp Grubauer
> 
> You can assume every other NHL goalie **is** in attendance.
> 
> NHL goalie coaches eligible to attend Guild meetings:
> 
> Sean Burke  
> Bob Essensa  
> Robb Tallas  
> Bill Ranford  
> Mike Dunham  
> Johan Hedberg  
> Ty Conklin  
> Martin Brodeur  
> Roland Melanson  
> Wade Flaherty
> 
> Hall of Famers that are eligible to attend Guild meetings:
> 
> Patrick Roy  
> Rogie Vachon  
> Dominik Hasek  
> Ed Belfour  
> Grant Fuhr  
> Billy Smith  
> Tony Esposito  
> Eddie Giacomin  
> Gerry Cheevers  
> Bernie Parent  
> Ken Dryden  
> Johnny Bower  
> Glenn Hall


	2. Juuse Saaros / Pekka Rinne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juuse Saros is in love with Pekka Rinne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saros / Rinne as requested. In doing research for this fic, I realized I borked up and Juuse has NOT been in the NHL for the required 82 games (I was accidentally looking at his Finnish league numbers). To which I say: 
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> It's my universe so I do what I want!
> 
> A few things to note: there are drug references in this fic. In addition, any dialogue with this symbol around it : "/" indicates it is not in English. In this fic's case, it's Finnish.
> 
> In regards to Guild names listed:  
> Pekka Rinne's Guild nickname is "Badger", in reference to the old Honey Badger viral video (which Pekka has said is one of his favorites).  
> Patrick Roy is "Dante", named after Dante's Inferno (a play on the "Saint Patrick" nickname and his propensity to not be incredibly angelic).  
> Martin Brodeur is "Gabriel", named after the Archangel, specifically around the movie The Prophecy which debuted the same year that Brodeur was inducted into the Guild.  
> Carey Price is "Showcase", named after the Price is Right's Showcase Showdown.  
> Jake Allen is "Damien", named after Jake the Snake's python.

_This place is huge,_ Juuse Saros thinks to himself. The resort that the Guild meeting is being held at is vast, and he's gotten lost a few times. Even worse now that it's dark; from his spot on the porch, he can see a huge bonfire going in the courtyard, and someone is shooting off fireworks in a field to the left. Two guys streak past him out of the interior and into the inky darkness, mostly naked and laughing; he can't see who they are.

"Are you lost? _Polaris_ now, is it?"

He turns to see Carey Price, who is looking comfortably disheveled and smirking at him. "Uh - yes, maybe?"

"What are you looking for?"

 _Pekka,_ Juuse thinks, but he doesn't really want to say that, so he just shrugs.

"Well, you can't be lost if you don't know what you're looking for." Carey ambles in front of him, and he realizes that he's being circled, sized up, like a minnow with a shark. "But you are looking for something. I can tell."

Saros makes a noncommittal noise, which just sharpens Price's grin. "You're looking for your partner. Oh, sorry, _goaltending_ partner. Although you'd certainly wish for the other partnership as well, eh?"

"What? No." Juuse bristles. He'd been warned that Carey has an uncanny ability to pick up relationship cues, so he doesn't even know why he's lying. "Fine. I guess. I mean - but it won't happen." Unless...he's not sure if he wants to know for sure, but it's going to eat at him if he doesn't ask. "At least I do not think. Do you, uh...maybe, see otherwise?"

"Oh, asking the wise sage Showcase to peer into your future and see whether Pekka Rinne would be willing to fuck you?" Carey closes his eyes, makes an _ohmmm_ sound, pretending to concentrate. "Mmmm...no. Sorry kid. Badger is straight." There is a pregnant pause where Juuse tries not to look too upset. It's data that he knew already, had always known, but to hear Carey confirm it, it's something different, a knife twisting in his gut. But Carey makes a thoughtful noise, and the knife twists deeper, this time with _hope._ "Welllll...under normal circumstances, that answer is no. But I think if you had some sort of bet that would require it...he'd be willing to settle up."

Juuse scrunches up his face. "You mean, like the Payment?"

"Right. But of course, you're on the same team, so that doesn't work." Carey must see Juuse's expression at those words, because he steps up, claps the other man on the shoulder. "But there's other ways to owe a favor besides the Payment, you know. I might have an idea."

"What?"

"I have a very good idea of what Badger might find... _intriguing,_ to win off a bet. So I just need to think of something to bet, something he thinks he might win but would actually lose. And if I win the bet, I'll make sure his punishment is to get with you."

Juuse blinks, looks around for a moment like he's expecting to see hidden cameras or something. "I don't want to...force him into..."

Carey waves his hands, as if he's waving away Saros' protests. "Jesus man, haven't you ever watched teen romance movies? The popular jock gets somehow stuck with the nerdy girl and then he realizes she's actually super awesome and they start dating. That's all this is. Just a nudge in that direction for Badger to realize how super awesome you are. Sexually, I mean."

Juuse knows he should question that premise a little more, but his heart wants that scenario more than anything, so he doesn't. "You would do that for me?"

"Of course! Now, I can't say it'll happen this weekend. More likely that bet is going to take next season to percolate. But by this time next year, you'll be the proud owner of one Finnish goalie's dick. I mean, besides yours." Price beams, looking exceptionally proud of himself. "Of course, I'd just want a favor in return."

Juuse takes an almost-involuntary step back at that last stipulation. But Carey is still smiling, looking honest and open. "What sort of...favor?"

"Well, I dunno. We'll leave it open ended until the time comes that I see something worth collecting." Price holds up his hands in an _I'm innocent_ gesture. "But it won't be too bad, right? I mean, we're going to see each other every year. I wouldn't screw over a fellow goalie. So...deal? Shake?" He extends his hand, that same honest smile on his face.

Saros keeps flicking his gaze from Carey's hand to his face, like something is going to change, like he's searching for whether this is a good or bad idea. But finally, tentatively, he extends his hand in return to receive a firm handshake. "Okay. Deal."

Carey's honest smile turns a little more predatory, and he winks. "I'm happy for ya, kid. Hope this'll be worth it. Now..." He digs into his pocket, producing a baggie of white powder. "This calls for a toast. Coke?"

"Oh..." Juuse stumbles backwards, a little scandalized. "Uh, no. No, thank you." He needs to leave, now.

Carey, for his part, just laughs, delighted, like he knew the offer would horrify the Predator. "Your goalie is out by the bonfire," he says, pointing in the direction of the roaring flames. "Go on."

Juuse doesn't need more prodding. He turns and fast-walks, as quickly as he can without making it seem like he's fleeing, towards the direction of the bonfire.

The fire is so large that even before he enters the ring of chairs, the temperature is noticeably warmer. There is a ragtag collection of goaltenders sprawled out, and everyone is silent except for two voices growling at each other. Juuse can see a cigarette tip bobbing in the air, brightening as its owner takes a drag and spits out: "I'm telling you, it's a _different game_ when you take ties out of the mix and add in the shootout. You can't compare records!" That voice belonged to Patrick Roy.

"Okay," another voice shot back. Martin Brodeur. "Take away all my shootout wins, Dante. I still have you beat in wins." Patrick growled in frustration, and Brodeur raises his voice to be heard over it. "And here's the kicker, I don't even care, except for the fact that it drives you fucking crazy!"

"Oh, you fucking care. Don't even try to tell me you don't - "

A low whistle carries through the din, and Juuse squints to see a hand waving through the air. _Pekka!_ He's sprawled out on a large, plush chair, so big it's almost a loveseat, with a footstool, and Saros weaves his way behind the circle of chairs to meet his goalie partner. "Hey," he murmurs over the shouting.

Pekka pats the space next to him. It's not quite big enough for two, so even though Juuse tries to squeeze in, give Rinne his own space, he ends up half in the other man's lap. Pekka doesn't seem to mind; his arm circles Juuse's waist, and Juuse dies just a little bit at the gesture, feeling almost bitter. Doesn't he realize what he does? That this is a tease?

/"Enjoy the fireworks,"/ Pekka replies, switching to Finnish, and Saros doesn't think he's referring to the Roman candles that are being shot off in the field next to them. Now the pair are yelling about equipment sizes and regulations.

/"Are they always like this?"/

Rinne snorts. /"Gabriel hasn't been here for a few years, but yes. Yes they are."/

/"They should just fuck and get it over with."/ A voice comes in from the right, and a face leans over, illuminated by the fire. Kari Lehtonen.

/"Cheers to that,"/ Pekka responds, and they clink their glasses together and take a drink.

/"Also, can you hand me that s'mores stick you've been hoarding all night?"/

Juuse can feel his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline when Pekka grabs the marshmallow holder from next to him, passes it over to Kari. /"What happened to your famous diet, Pek - uh, Badger?"/

/"It's the summer."/ Pekka responds with a brilliant, fond smile. /"A lot of things happen this weekend that...don't normally happen."/ He squeezes the other man's waist a little and Juuse feels his heart stutter. And suddenly, he's sure of it: he's not going to need Carey's bet. Not this weekend.

Across the fire, Patrick and Martin have graduated to standing, and now they are yelling about front offices. "Don't blame me for the Avs right now, I have nothing to fuckin' do with them. What's your excuse for the Blues? Choking in the playoffs _again?"_

A few seats down from them, Jake Allen coughs quietly.

"Damien is right the fuck there, man," Brodeur shoots back, gesturing to Jake. "Not fucking cool. You know what - you're a dick. Still." And with that, he turns on his heel and storms away.

"Don't - hey!" Roy's running after him, sputtering about _not being walked away from,_ and the campfire lets out a sigh of relief.

 _"Crisse,"_ a voice blurts out from the left, and Marc-Andre Fleury is there, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Who invites them again?"

"Gabriel becomes eligible for the Hall in 2018, so get used to this shit," Johan Hedberg responds, sitting next to Fleury. "We're going to be seeing this a lot."

"Crisse," came the response, again.

"Never a dull moment," Jake Allen pipes up, but even with his face in shadows, Juuse can tell he is annoyed.

"Speaking of dull moments," Kari mutters next to them, and Juuse looks up at a figure suddenly looming over them. Carey Price. He is grinning that same shark-grin at the pair.

"Badger. Can I borrow you for a bit?"

Pekka lets out a thoughtful noise, but doesn't move. "Something wrong, Showcase?"

"Not wrong. Something you might find interesting. Just hear me out."

"Don't do it," Kari whispers playfully, but either Pekka doesn't hear or he ignores the advice, as he wiggles out and extracts himself from Saros.

"Fine. You get 10 minutes, then I go to bed. Go on, I'll follow." Price practically skips away, towards the sanctuary, and Pekka turns back to his goaltending partner for a hug.

/"For you,"/ he murmurs, pressing something into Juuse's hand, and then he's gone, following the Canadien.

Saros pulls up his fingers, one-by-one, to reveal a key. The teeth gently bite into his skin as he wraps his fingers back up, clutches it hard. _Pekka gave me his key._ At this old converted-religious retreat, the rooms still utilized actual keys. The rooms themselves had been updated, and were spacious, since they'd each been living quarters, but the owners decided to keep some old-world charms, and the heavy, ornate keys were one of them.

/"So, are you enjoying Nashville?"/ Kari smiles next to him, chomping into a fresh s'more.

They talk for 10, 15 minutes. It's nice to be able to converse in Finnish, rather than try and stumble his way through English discussions. He's fairly adept now at talking hockey and getting through life in English, but anything complex or deep, forget about it. He just doesn't have those words yet.

They're just finishing up a discussion about the differences between Finnish and American dating norms when Kari stretches, making himself twice as big. /"Getting late. I think maybe I'll take it easy tonight, save my energy for tomorrow. It's going to be crazy, so get excited for it. Yes, crazier!"/ Lehtonen laughs at Juuse's expression. /"Thursday night is always just the warm up for Friday and Saturday. Anyway, maybe I'll just...read a little bit? Relax in my room? Or..." He trails off, smiling. "Well, anyway. Goodnight."/

/"Night,"/ Juuse agrees, watching Kari amble away for just a moment before he's only a fuzzy figure in the night.

From the left, Marc-Andre Fleury lets out a low whistle, leans forward. "So, you have exciting night lined up, Polaris?"

"Huh?"

Fleury mimics grabbing something, and Juuse looks down, his fist clenched around the key. "You have a key. You know what that means, no?"

 _I can hope,_ Juuse thinks, but he just shrugs. Maybe it means something completely different than what he thinks.

"Someone gives you their key, they ain't wanting to invite you to their room for poker, if you know what I mean." Jake gives the signal for jerking off with his hand.

"More like poke- _him,"_ Fleury blurts out, laughing uproariously to jeers from the circle.

"You want some X? Makes things a lot more fun," Hedberg declares. Juuse doesn't even really know what X is, just knows it's some sort of drug. He feels suddenly very straight-edged as a couple members of the group pipe up that they want some.

"No, uh - no thanks. Uhm, goodnight," he replies, a little clipped, and Hedberg is throwing a pill bottle across the fire to someone as he hurries off into the evening.

Only when he's moved back into the lights coming from the porch does he uncurl his fist. The key has a number written on it - _214._ So, building 2. Luckily, that's his building as well, so he slips inside the door to the darkened hallway.

It's quiet, but he can see flashing lights thrown against the wall towards the lounge, the TV flickering, soft mumbled noises. He sneaks past the lounge to see Roberto Luongo and Eddie Lack engaged in what looks to be a heavy conversation, the TV muted and showing ESPN. They don't notice him, and he's glad for it.

211, 212, 213...finally, he stops in front of 214 and takes a deep breath before inserting the key into the lock. He's trying to be quiet, but the lock makes a loud snick sound as the door pops open.

The room is dark, moonlight filtering in just enough to see a figure curled on the bed, sitting up. "Hei," the voice says, but Juuse doesn't want talking, not right now, so he crosses to the bed in two long strides and grabs for the other man's face. When he's finally located the jaw, the cheeks, he tumbles onto the bed, onto a warm lap and soft lips as the pair kiss.

Pekka smells like home. There's a very distinct smell about Finns, something that Juuse can't quite put his finger on, but reminds him of home every time Rinne gets close. Even after the games, on the ice, when they press against each other, through the sweat and musk Juuse can smell it. Like all is right in the world.

Saros allows himself to be tilted, tipped over to the bed and the soft, cool sheets as the mouth moves, fixes under his jaw, sucking the sweat that had pooled in the dip of his neck while he was outside. Hands are reaching up under his shirt, and fingernails trail up his belly and chest, giving him goosebumps, before finding his nipples and gently pinching. Juuse is already hard, painfully hard, trying to stop himself from grinding up into Pekka's legs.

There's a low chuckle at that, and one hand pulls away from his chest to cup Juuse through his shorts. "Please," he whispers, in English, because in Finnish you generally attach 'please' to a specific request and Juuse doesn't know what he wants. He doesn't know how to choose; he wants to make Pekka come in his mouth, inside him, on his chest, on his back. Everything. Whatever he wants; Juuse thinks: he knows that he'll let Rinne choose and will be delighted to comply. 

The mouth on his neck moves back up to his lips, and the kiss is a little sloppy, and that's okay. Pekka's tongue drags over his lips, touches his teeth, stubble rubbing against Juuse's jaw. He tastes like marshmallow, chocolate, and a hint of smoky bourbon. Below, the precision of deft fingers is the opposite of sloppy; Pekka pops the short's buttons, unzipping and yanking the shorts and brief down just enough to expose Juuse in one smooth motion.

"Oh," breaths Saros as Pekka nips his chin, affectionately, sliding down the bed and his body to hover over his shorts. Rinne grabs ahold of one of Juuse's hands, plants a wet kiss near the wrist, doesn't let it go even while his other hand gently curls around Saros' exposed cock. _"Oh,"_ Juuse breathes again, and it's met with another chuckle.

Juuse curls his toes as hot spikes of arousal burn up his stomach with just the touch. He vaguely notices one of his flip flops is still on, the shoe shifting sideways as his toes twitch, and he holds onto Pekka's hand like a lifeline. Rinne's long fingers stroke the inside of his wrist, slowly, the movements echoed on his cock. Up and down, up and down, until Saros thinks he's going to scream, until the flip flip twists off and lands on the floor with a _thunk._

He must have made some sort of noise, because the gentle strokes stop, replaced by a hot, wet mouth, lapping up the pre-come and wetting the head, only the head. Pekka blows softly, cold air on the damp tip and Juuse yanks on Rinne's hand so hard that for a moment he's afraid he's dragged Pekka back up his body. But no; Pekka just squeezes his hand in acknowledgement, deciding to stop with the teasing and take Juuse fully into his mouth.

 _"Joo,"_ Juuse whines, and Pekka mouth is warm and soft, wasting no time in starting a rhythm. Saros' thigh muscles are wound tight, starting to ache a little like he's just had a rough practice. He tilts his foot wrong and his calf threatens to cramp on him; all the blood is somewhere else right now, and he's trying not to thrust up, not to choke Pekka. Their woven hands are warm and slick with sweat, and Juuse can feel Pekka's pulse coming in steady thrums, matching the own heavy drumming in his ears.

"Please," he mutters again, and he's close, would normally feel a little embarrassed about being done so quick, but he knows it's okay. _Look what you do to me,_ Juuse wants to say, but his words don't work right now, neither English nor Finnish. Now he can't help his hips, jerking up in tight little snaps as he comes, and his brain grasps only one word, which he gasps out: _"Pekka."_

The man below him swallows, lingering just a moment to ensure every drop is caught before yanking his head back up. /"Did you just call me Pekka?"/

/"Ah, fuck,"/ Juuse mutters, dropping his head heavily back down to the sheets. The bed dips as the other man rolls off it, and a thin light pops on next to the bed. Fortunately, Kari Lehtonen doesn't look angry; just amused. /"I'm - really sorry, man. I just, I..."/

/"I get it. Hey, easy to pretend that key came from the _other_ Finnish goalie you were talking to tonight, and it's dark in here, so..."/

/"Overactive imagination,"/ Juuse finished, weakly.

/"You love him?"/ Kari hops back on the bed, pressing against Saros, who finishes adjusting himself back into his shorts before answering with a short nod. /"That sucks. I don't think Badger likes dudes."/

/"He doesn't,"/ Juuse confirms. /"Well, probably? Showcase thinks he can be persuaded. I talked to him earlier this evening, and he thinks that maybe he can get Pekka into some sort of bet? Which would end with us hooking up?"/

"Oh." Kari looks a little alarmed at that. /"And what did you give Showcase for this bet, if I may ask?"/

/"I dunno. Nothing, yet. Just some future, unspecified favor."/

"Ugh." Lehtonen dramatically thunks back down on the bed, smacking his forehead. /"Oh, Polaris. You don't know what you've done, my friend. Owing Carey Price a favor is not a thing you ever want to have hanging over you. Did he say...is that favor owed even if the bet is lost, and you don't end up hooking up with Badger?"/

/"I...guess so. We didn't really talk about it."/

/"Didn't even discuss terms?! Jesus, man."/ Kari smirks, patting his arm in a close-to-patronizing manner. /"Before you make any more bets, Polaris, come talk to me first. I mean, don't feel bad. Every single rookie this weekend is gonna end up indebted to some veteran here. It's just the way it happens. But no more. Let me help, next time."/

Juuse sighs, startling suddenly when he remembers where he is. /"Oh - shit. Do you want, uh..."/

/"The favor returned? Well..."/ Kari looks down at his crotch, thoughtful. /"Are you gonna be thinking of Pekka the whole time?"/

/"No."/

/"Wrong answer. Think of Pekka because then you're gonna give the best blowjob of your life."/ Lehtonen shimmies up to the pillows, grabs one for under his head. /"Don't feel like you have to, but if you're offering..."/

Juuse is a big believer in _fair_ and _reciprocation,_ so he does, and he does think of Pekka, easy to fall into the fantasy when there's whispered Finnish encouragements above him. He swallows it all and wonders what Pekka sounds like when he comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for tagging his as Saros / Rinne when it's not **really** , but I felt like the fic wouldn't work if the reader knew straight on that it was only Juuse's imagination & fantasy.


	3. Story - The Minor Leagues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johan Hedberg explains why he got into coaching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occasionally, I'll be posting non-slash chapters which just tell a story. Most won't be quite so grim as this. Be aware this chapter talks about sexual abuse.
> 
> The Guild names mentioned are:  
> "Dolphin" is Marc-Andre Fleury, named after the flower Delphinium, considered the flower of joy and laughter.  
> "Damien" is Jake Allen, named after Jake the Snake's python.  
> "Durmstrang" is Anton Khudobin. I mean, his nickname is Dobby and he's Russian/Khazak. Had to.

Marc-Andre Fleury was pleasantly sleepy. It was warm by the fire - the night had cooled the air significantly, but it was the perfect temperature here. He'd been drinking most of the night, and it had been a long day. So he was content to hang his head back against the cushions of the chair, stare up at the brilliant stars that could only been seen this far from civilization.

He was just about to close his eyes when a nudge came from next to him. Tilting his head, he eyed the culprit. Johan Hedberg was offering some sort of lit cigarette out to him. "Just weed. Want a hit?"

"Yes," Fleury replied, taking a long drag off the joint and handing it back over. He felt a pang of guilt - Sidney Crosby did not like drugs, did not like that Marc-Andre sometimes indulged in drugs over the summer. The guilt was followed by a flash of anger. _Sidney Crosby is not my boyfriend, and that is his own damn fault. He does not dictate what I do._

He needed to take his mind off _Sidney fucking Crosby._ "How do you like coaching?" he asked Hedberg. The Swede chuckled.

"I can't say I don't miss playing...but it is also very rewarding. Different, but the same. Long nights and days, you are accountable for someone else's performance basically, which is very strange, right? The pressure though, of playing, it is still there, just in other ways." He paused, looking thoughtful, and opened his mouth to say something else when a loud whoop rang behind them, waking up the only other goalie still at the bonfire - Jake Allen. The three of them turned to see Al Montoya pushing a laughing Jonathan Quick in a wheelchair, past the bonfire and towards the direction of the pool before darkness swallowed them.

"Where'd they get the - " Jake started, before they heard a loud _splash._ "...wheelchair," he finished. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

"You were going to say something before...whatever that was, just happened?" Marc-Andre tilted his head, curious.

Johan grunted, non-committal, and took a long drag off the joint before passing it back over to Fleury. "Well...this isn't something I tell too many people. I should tell more, spread the word, do what I can, but...you know how it is." Now Jake looked interested too, sitting up, and Johan flicked his eyes between the two goalies listening. "Okay, so the real reason I became a coach...I mean, there's a lot of them. Paycheck is nice. Still being involved with the league, right, great. Other good reasons. But the other reason...the minor leagues are a fucking scum-filled pit of abuse from coaches and ownership and being in the NHL in a leadership position puts me in the best position to try and stop that."

Marc-Andre and Jake shared a look before Allen spoke up. "I was in the AHL for awhile and everything was pretty okay for me. Dolphin?"

Marc-Andre frowned. "Me too. But I heard rumors."

"The AHL used to be terrible. It's cleaned up its act. Abuse still happens, but it's rarer. Today, you have to look further down the pipe. ECHL, IHL, SPHL. Schools sometimes, too. When you're not in the NHL, not highly rated prospects, guys will do anything for that extra leg up. And anything in those leagues really means _anything,_ sometimes." Hedberg took another drag on the last dregs of the weed before throwing the tip into the fire. "You boys read that Player's Tribute article from Scott Darling? How he became an alcoholic? I mean, I've never talked to Scott, so I don't want to assume. But...at school, and then being stuck in small little shit minor leagues...wouldn't surprise me. Lots of guys turn to drinking if they think they can't get ahead unless they're willing to suck a dick."

"Jesus," Jake muttered.

"Ask Durmstrang if you want his story. But, anyway, as a coach I can stamp that out in my org, at least. It won't happen to Sharks prospects, not anymore."

Marc-Andre frowned, feeling a little anxious. "So did you - where - ..."

"Pittsburgh and its organization treated me great," Johan told him, as if reading his thoughts. "Others didn't. Miikka Kiprusoff was in front of me when I played in Kentucky. He made the AHL All-Star Game. He was a rock star. But still, I got 33 games that year to his 47, not that many fewer than him. Because he wasn't willing to..." Johan trailed off, awkwardly fumbling with his fingers, looking like he wished he had more weed. "And I was."

"Kentucky," Jake said slowly. "They're not around anymore. What NHL team were they affiliated with?"

At that question, Johan just smiled slowly, a grim and knowing smile. "Sharks, Damien. They were the Sharks affiliate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read the Player's Tribune article referenced, you should. It's great.


	4. Patrick Roy / Martin Brodeur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick Roy and Martin Brodeur are pissed at each other. Which, of course, means sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will reference a game called "Rubicon", which the Guild has created. It will be fully explained later, but it includes shooting fireworks at each other, because boys are dumb.
> 
> All dialogue in this chapter is in French, unless it has "/" around it, which will denote English.
> 
> The Guild names referenced in this chapter:  
> "Dante" is Patrick Roy, a play off the "Saint Patrick" nickname for Dante's Inferno (because he's basically the opposite of a saint).  
> "Gabriel" is Martin Brodeur, named after the evil Archangel from The Prophecy.  
> "Shredder" is Henrik Lundqvist. He plays the guitar!

"I _said,_ don't walk away from me. Are you getting deaf in your old age or what?"

Martin Brodeur stalked a few more feet into the old church sanctuary which now served as the main meeting room of the retreat before whirling around, scowling at Patrick Roy who was following him. "I'm obviously ignoring you, fuckface! I'm going to go to the kitchen, get a snack, and go to bed. And you're gonna fuck right off and leave me alone." He turned around, took another step, then turned back. "And old, go to hell, you know you're older than me, right?"

"Not that much older." Patrick took the opportunity to step up, tangle a fist in the front of Brodeur's polo, who sighed.

"Oh, what now, what is this. You still punching everything that disagrees with you? You never change - "

Patrick yanked himself close with his hand on Marty's shirt, shut him up with a kiss that was practically a bite. Brodeur stared ahead at the other man once the kiss broke, eyes lidded and half-closed, sneering. "Like I said...you never change. Really, Dante, this, now?"

"Like you don't want it?"

Brodeur held up a hand, pressing his palm to Patrick's chin when the Roy moved in for another kiss. "I'm married."

"Ha!" Roy did not let go his grip on Marty's shirt; if anything, he curled his fingers tighter. "Did that ever stop you before?"

"Fair point. Well - you're an asshole."

Roy lifted his eyebrows, and Marty sighed. "Okay, that hasn't changed either. Fine...you're _old."_

"My dick still works fine, and you're old too, you dumb fuck."

Brodeur sighed, dropped his hand back to his side, which Patrick took as an invitation to snap his teeth onto the muscles in Marty's shoulder, near his neck. Brodeur swallowed back a noise - he wouldn't give Roy the satisfaction - but rolled his neck to the side to give the other man more flesh to work with. Roy took the invite, biting and sucking, and Marty twisted his fingers through Patrick's hair and yanked hard, was rewarded with a low whine from the other man. He felt himself stumbling backwards til he hit the wall, was quickly pressed against it by Patrick.

He jerked his fingers in Roy's hair again, harder this time, dragging Patrick's mouth to his for a sloppy, wet kiss, both their tongues attempting to invade each other's mouths like it was a war. When they broke, both panting, Roy's eyes drifted to Marty's neck, and he smirked at the hickey forming there.

"Oh, fuck you," Brodeur muttered, knowing exactly what Patrick was looking at, nudging Roy's neck up and nipping hard at the stubble there. Roy squirmed, but Marty kept two hands on his shoulders, keeping Patrick pulled against him while he sucked the spot, marking him right back. "There," Marty said, voice rough. "Now we're even."

"I can't wait to fuck you," Roy growled back, reaching his hand down between them for Marty's crotch, but Brodeur slapped his hand away, hissing.

"Fuck _me?_ You've got that backwards, shithead. I'm going to fuck you."

"No."

"Well, the old way of deciding doesn't work right now, does it?" _The old way of deciding_ was generally made after games which they'd gone head-to-head, the winner finding the other man and fucking him until he couldn't properly stand, and team practice the next day would be shit. Team hotels, rink closets, a locked bathroom once or twice. Even after Patrick retired, they'd sometimes be in the same city, and Martin would get a phone call: _lose tonight, your ass is mine._ But he gave Patrick some credit. He was a notoriously sore loser, but even if Marty was victorious, he'd always show up to pay his due. Sometimes his pants would be damp, his opening already slick with lube, so Marty could just slam into him, and they wouldn't say three words between them, just grunting and snarls.

Patrick sighed at him. "So we decide a different way, Gabriel, Jesus Christ."

Marty did not appreciate how Patrick was looking at him like he was stupid. "Fine. We'll play Rubicon tomorrow."

"You think I'm waiting that long to get your ass?" Patrick tilted his head, thinking for a moment before sticking out his fist. "Rock-paper-scissors."

"Are you fucking serious." Brodeur rolled his eyes. "Yes, you are, aren't you. I...whatever, fine. We go on shoot, like 1-2-3- _shoot,_ not 1-2-3."

"I know how to play the fucking game - "

"Alright," Marty interrupted with a sneer. "Let's go. 1-2-3-shoot."

The first time, they both threw rock. On the second go, Marty was fairly sure Patrick would throw rock again - that was just the kind of guy he seemed like, so he threw paper. But no, Roy presented scissors.

"Fuck!" Marty grit his teeth. "It's best two out of three, right?"

Roy's smile said no. "Get those pants down and turn around." Without waiting, Roy's hands were at his belt, yanking. Suddenly, his movements slowed and he glanced up at Marty, thoughtfully, while he pulled the belt open. "Am I still the only man to have ever fucked you?"

Marty didn't respond, but his face must have betrayed him as Roy lit up in a grin. Patrick got his shorts and boxers peeled off his hips and they slid down awkwardly, catching on Marty's knees. "Turn around, Gabriel, and let me see that ass. _My_ ass," he crowed.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, old man," Brodeur bit back, reaching down to pull off his shorts before turning around to face the wall with a sigh.

Patrick slapped his ass, and in the quiet room it echoed like a gunshot. He repeated the move with the other cheek, watching both globes go a nice, light pink before kneeling down and spreading Marty's cheeks.

"Look at that poor neglected little asshole," Patrick cooed, shoving a wet tongue against it and causing Brodeur's hands to curl into fists against the wall. "It's been so long since it's been fucked, huh? Well, don't worry. Daddy's here to fill you up."

Marty made a gagging, disgusted noise, which turned into a low groan at the rim job. "Please don't call yourself...uh...call yourself _Daddy,_ it's fucking...ah, Jesus...fucking gross," Marty muttered over the wet smacks and licking noises; Patrick dipped the tip of his tongue inside the pucker, causing Brodeur to whimper and grind backwards with a curse.

"You love my tongue in your ass, don't you?" Patrick asked, climbing to his feet to shove his fingers into Marty's mouth, thrusting them in and out until Brodeur was drooling down his chin, jaw starting to ache. He bit down hard to let Roy know he was done with that.

Patrick yelped and yanked them out, kneeled again. "We shouldn't be... - not here," Brodeur protested, belatedly, as Patrick's finger started pushing inside, wet with his own spit. "There's - rules."

The Goalie Guild had rules about public sex; everyone wanted to come and have a good time, but a good time to about half the group _didn't_ mean "getting your dick wet", at least not with coworkers, so it was agreed that everything sex-related would be kept behind-doors. Nobody sees anything they don't want to see. But Patrick: _"Fuck_ the rules," he snarled out, then hocked back and spit for a little more lubrication. "What, you afraid your Blues goalies are going to see their front office executive with my cock up his ass? Afraid that the whole place is going to hear you begging me to fuck you?"

_"When_ have I ever begged," Marty protested, his sweat-slicked brow thumping against the wall with Patrick adding a second finger. "Oh, god, fuck. Just...don't be too loud, then, okay."

As if directly defying orders, Patrick started smacking Marty's cheeks, his fingers continuing to pump in and out while doing so. The slaps made thick, fleshy noises, ringing through the large room.

_"Fuck_ you," Brodeur said. "Really? Come o-o-n," he stuttered the last word, Patrick finding his prostate at that moment.

"Oh, you like this?" Roy's tone was deceptively sweet, pressing again and again at the sensitive spot until Marty was writhing against the wall, reaching his fist down to stroke himself.

"I'm not going to beg, Dante," he mumbled. "Fuck me, or don't, see if I care."

The fingers withdrew suddenly, and Patrick was right behind him, mouth puffing hot air against his ear. "I'll be quiet, Gabriel, but I'm going to make you scream," he growled in Marty's ear, and his tone was low, predatory. There was the sound of a belt being undone, the cold metal of the buckle scraping against Marty's bare upper thigh. Patrick didn't even bother pushing his shorts off, just unzipped the front and pulled himself out, smacking his cock against Marty's ass cheek, its color turned from pink to brighter red from the spanking. Brodeur heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper, then the colorful packaging floated down to his foot as Roy rolled it onto himself.

Brodeur pulled his forearm up to his mouth and bit down hard when Patrick started to push inside. This level of lube - just some spit, some fingers, a wet tongue and mouth - was pretty typical for them. Marty had fucked himself at home once or twice while his family was gone, using a generous amount of lube, his wife's toys, and realized just how painless anal sex could be. But _painless_ was never the right word with Patrick, and that's why he'd only ended up using those toys a few times. _Painless_ was not what he wanted.

It was a unique burning as Patrick thrust his hips forward steadily, only stopping when he was fully seated inside. Marty didn't know how to describe it - like a coursing vein of pleasure with an undercurrent of pain. Like eating spicy food that was so delicious you couldn't stop even though it burned your mouth and tongue. He wasn't going to beg, would never give the ex-Av the pleasure of hearing it, but he had to fight the urge to do so the entire time. _Fuck me, fuck me, FUCK ME,_ his brain screamed, and the only concession he gave was a grind backward and a soft moan around the skin of his arm.

"I can't get any deeper inside, you cock whore," Patrick whispered in his ear. "Grinding back on me like you want more. I know you want more. You'll get it when I'm good and ready." He bit Marty's earlobe, and Brodeur yipped.

"Ow, fuck, you little bitch, you - " Marty snapped his mouth shut so he wouldn't cry out, Roy taking that moment to pull back and snap his hips forward.

"What were you saying?"

"Fuck you," Brodeur shot back, but it was barely more than a whisper.

"You sound wrecked already," Roy noted, grabbing Marty's hips and continuing the hard, snappy thrusts, smacking him into the wall with every plunge. He didn't bother finding the prostate, didn't bother jerking Marty off, knowing he was doing it himself. Patrick made no concession for Marty's pleasure, but that's how it had always been. How they both wanted it, whether they were on the top or bottom.

Marty hissed when Patrick bit his neck, too close to where he'd already marked, the skin puffy and sore. "I want you to look at me when I'm coming inside you," Roy growled, roughly pulling out and tugging Marty over to one of the nearby couches.

Brodeur let himself be pulled, stumbling backwards until his legs reached the cushion and the tumbling down on the soft fabric, on his back. Patrick grabbed his legs, shoving them apart and pressing a palm on Marty's stomach, the other hand positioning himself to thrust back in.

A loud noise caused both of them to flick their gaze over to the room's entrance. Henrik Lundqvist had knocked over a folding chair when entering the room and was gaping at both of them.

/"Hey, Shredder,"/ Patrick casually called out, switching to English, maintaining eye contact with the Swede as he thrust back into Marty.

"Oh - " Henrik's mouth bobbled open, temporarily rendered mute. /"I, uh - sorry, I - "/

/"Welcome. Sit,"/ Patrick hissed to him.

Marty made a note of protest, placing his feet on Roy's chest to stop his thrusts. "Dante, no, what the fuck - "

Patrick stopped thrusting just long enough to wrench Marty's legs up, away from his chest, both men groaning as Roy slammed deep. /"Mentorship is always so important to you, isn't it, Gabriel? I just want your younger, more talented, long time rival to watch the right way to really fuck your opponent."/

_/"Goddamnit - "/_

/"Keep it up and I'll come on your face,"/ Patrick warned, and so Marty fell silent, baring his teeth at Roy in anger. His legs hung uncomfortably in the air where Patrick had shoved them, so he pulled them to his chest, groaned at the different, deeper sensation. After a moment he didn't quite care anymore that they had an audience, arching his back as he jerked himself off.

/"That's right,"/ Patrick said. /"Arch that back. Toss that head like a little slut. You're going to come from me fucking your ass? Better do it soon, I am so _fucking_ close."/

/"Hurry up,"/ Marty spit in his palm for a little more lube, speeding his strokes.

Henrik was mesmerized by the scene in front of him, Martin Brodeur writhing on the couch, desperately stroking himself, Patrick Roy thrusting hard and fast with shaking thighs. With one final grunt, Patrick growled something throaty and low in French - from what Henrik can tell, it's nothing but curse words and insults - and it looks like he's coming. Almost synchronized, Brodeur splashes across his stomach, doing so in silence, just a ghost of a smile quirked on his face.

/"Slut,"/ Patrick drawled to Marty, in English for Lundqvist's sake, and Brodeur pops an eye open, finds Hank's gaze. His mouth is still slightly open, but there's a look in his eyes that Marty doesn't quite recognize, something crazy.

/"Shredder, don't tell - ..."/

/"I won't tell,"/ Henrik babbled, jumping up so fast he knocked over another chair. Watching these two legends, one of whom he'd had fierce on-ice battles with, both of whom he'd looked up to, watching them fuck each other - it was strange, bizarre, uncomfortable...

It was exceptionally fucking hot.

Henrik shifted, aware of how tight his pants suddenly were. /"I won't tell. Won't, but, uh, I gotta - go, so..."/

Patrick and Marty locked eyes as the Ranger fled the room. Suddenly, Brodeur recognized the wild look in Lundqvist's eyes. Lust. "Was he hard?" Marty asked, sharply intaking a breath as Patrick pulled out, rolling up the condom.

"Probably. He definitely likes dick, I know that for sure. Almost as much as you."

Marty used his shirt, which was still on, to wipe up his come and affix Roy with a withering look. "Tomorrow, we're going to play Rubicon. And I am going to win, and then you're going to fucking ride me, and you're not going to stop until I come. And I'm going to sit back and enjoy it."

"We'll see," Patrick flicked the used condom at Marty, which earned a savage snarl. "Maybe tomorrow I'll just make you blow me, after I win. Your asshole isn't going to be worth much after that punishment it just took."

"Get the fuck out of here."

All Patrick could do was laugh as he zipped himself back up, redid the belt that hung from just a single belt hole, jarred loose during sex. "Tomorrow, then, Gabriel. See ya."


	5. Roberto Luongo / Henrik Lundqvist / Eddie Lack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie Lack is a size queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever you see this symbol : "/" it means that the dialogue contained within is in Swedish.
> 
> They reference something called the Sweep here; it will be explained more later, but the Guild does something special for goalies that win 4-0 in the playoffs.
> 
> Guild names mentioned:
> 
> Eddie Lack is "Moa". His actual nickname is 'Stork' due to his long legs, and Moa is an extinct, taller bird.  
> Roberto Luongo is "Flop" or "Flops". His Guild-given nickname is actually "Bluff", due to his love of poker and his practical jokes; but, when given, Roberto insisted if he was going to have a poker nickname, it would be "Flop". Flop, of course, being a derogatory term for something goalies do. So, Luongo is the only Guild goalie to essentially have given himself a nickname, because...it's Roberto fucking Luongo and he is hilarious.  
> Henrik Lundqvist is "Shredder" due to his guitar skills.  
> Robin Lehner is "Cthulhu" because his actual nickname is 'Kraken' and he loves death metal. Put the two together...  
> Cory Schneider is "Ninja", a play on 'ginger ninja'.

Beers can stack pretty well, as it turns out.

"Close," Eddie Lack whispered, as Roberto Luongo precariously placed the second-to-last beer can on the stack they had going in the resort lounge. The two men held their breath as the stack swayed, but stayed together, and they let out a sigh of relief.

"One more," Eddie told the other goalie, holding out the last can.

Luongo frowned, looking up at the stack. It was now too high for either to place the last can. "Well, we'll have to step on something. Not the table, though, it'll sway too much."

"Couch?"

Roberto turned to look behind him with a critical eye. "I think I can make that work."

"Maybe it should be me, I'm taller - "

"Barely," Luongo interrupted, pretending to be put off and insulted. "Also, Moa, you are not a stacking champion like me."

"Uh huh." Lack looked skeptical as Roberto climbed onto the couch and swayed for a moment himself. Both men were drunk; the beer in the cans had to go somewhere, after all.

Luongo winked, leaning over from the couch on his tip toes to place the last can. "Almost - almost - shit!" He flailed for a moment, trying to stay upright, but ended up falling onto the table and through the beer can stack. Cans went flying everywhere with a loud, metallic _crash._

"Well, it wouldn't be a Guild meeting without Roberto fucking Luongo waking _everyone_ up at 3 in the morning," Eddie laughed, standing over the prone goalie who was blinking in surprise at finding himself on the table, flecked with beer.

"It's just tradition at this point," Luongo agreed, as someone down the hall opened their door and screamed, _shut the fuck up!_ Then, the sound of a door slamming back shut.

Both men clapped hands over their mouths to stifle the giggles. "That sounded like Cthulhu," Eddie whispered, extending a hand to help Roberto back to his feet. Luongo accepted, stumbling into Lack when he was back vertical.

"Whoa there," Eddie murmured, grabbing Roberto from swaying further. "You're drunk."

_"You're_ drunk," Luongo shot back, and Eddie smirked, starting to raise his eyebrows. The look did not go unnoticed by Roberto, who groaned and pushed off him, sitting back down on the coach with a thud. "Oh no. I know that look."

"I mean, it's been awhile - "

"It's been awhile because I am _straight,_ Moa."

Eddie snorted, carefully moving a few scattered cans to sit on the table. "I blew you like, at least 5 times when we were in Vancouver together. Doesn't seem so straight to me."

"Well, here's how it goes," Roberto said to the ceiling, his head now tilted back on the couch, eyes closed, looking wasted. "When I get drunk and someone is just begging to suck my cock, then I mean, I'm just a man, Moa, with needs. So in my brain, it's not you that's giving me a beej, it's just...it's the world's ugliest woman, that's all."

Eddie laughed despite himself. "That is the worst justification I've ever heard, Flop."

Roberto shrugged largely, eyes still closed. "Ugly women deserve love too."

Eddie was just about to respond when a skidding noise caused both men to look towards the hallway, Roberto raising his head blearily. Henrik Lundqvist stood there, chest heaving like he'd just been running.

"What's up with that look on his face," Roberto whispered, theatrically. True enough, Henrik had a crazed, wild-eyed look as he stared at the two men. "Is this some sort of gay thing?"

"You're an asshole," Eddie whispered back, fondly.

"Oh god, he's coming our way," Roberto started crawling back on the couch as Lundqvist swooped towards them.

"Boys," Henrik said as he got closer. "You will never believe what I just saw."

"Don't wanna know," Luongo replied, shaking his head. "Not with that look on your face I don't."

Henrik ignored him, continuing on. "Roy and Brodeur. _Fucking."_

Eddie gasped, looking delighted, and Luongo groaned, falling backwards on the coach. "I knew it was a gay thing. Great, you two boys go fuck, ol' Bobby Lu is gonna take a nap here."

"Oh!" Lack's eyes widened at Luongo's suggestion. "Did you - ..." Eddie looked a little shy, smiling at Lundqvist. He was pretty sure the wild look in his eyes was lust, and he looked ready to jump anything that moved, but didn't want to make an ass of himself and simply assume. "Did you, uh, _want_ to...?"

As a response, Henrik trotted over and grabbed Eddie's chin, crushing his mouth to the other man. Roberto popped one eye open at the smacking noise. "Well, I'm very happy for you boys," he said. "Especially you, Moa. Really batting above your average. But like, not here, please."

"You're not getting out of this that easy," Lack protested, grabbing at Roberto. "C'mon. I really want to suck you off. Please?" Luongo said nothing, just pretending to be asleep, and Eddie knelt down next to the couch. "Pleeease, Flop, I love your dick. Please please please. Please?"

Roberto turned his head slowly with a sigh, opening his eyes back up. "What about him?" he gestured to Lundqvist.

Eddie paused, eyebrows suddenly shooting up with a grin, and he turned to Henrik. "Shredder, you want to fuck me while I blow Flops?"

Henrik's eyes went wide. "Hell yes."

"That's _weird,"_ Luongo whined, but allowed himself to be pulled up by Eddie. "That's super gay and weird. You know that, right?"

"Is he not - " Henrik started, but was shushed by Lack.

"I'll owe you a favor," Eddie declared. "Or, next time I get a Sweep, it's yours."

Roberto sighed, nodded in acquiesce. "Fine. I'll take the favor because god knows you guys aren't gonna get a Sweep." He grinned, ducking away from Eddie's swing.

"Asshole."

"Yes, we've established this," Roberto said as Eddie grabbed his hand, started dragging him down the hall with Lundqvist right behind.

/"Is he not gay?"/ Henrik asked in Swedish.

/"Not really. He just lets me suck his dick sometimes."/

"Oh," Roberto muttered. "I forgot you guys are both Swedish. Is this gonna make the Olympics weird for you? Or, like, is the entire Swedish locker room just a giant fuck-fest already? That seems like a very Swedish kind of thing."

/"He's never serious,"/ Lack explained to Henrik in response to Luongo's comment. /"You just sort of get used to him being a constant smart ass."/

"Actually," Luongo continued, "If it is gonna make it weird, let's definitely do this. Better odds for Canada. And if you're doing weird dirty talk, please continue to keep it in Swedish. I don't wanna hear that shit."

"Where are we going, by the way?" Eddie asked, ignoring that last comment by Luongo. "Flops, what about your room? You're right here, aren't you?"

Roberto shook his head. "Hell no. I don't want to have to kick you two out of _my_ room. After I'm done I just want to get the fuck out and go back to my bed."

"Well, I'm in building 5, that's all the way across campus."

Henrik shrugged. "I'm in 3. That's right next door. Could go to mine?"

"Perfect," Eddie replied, and suddenly a door was swinging open a few feet down the hallway. Cory Schneider peered out, eyes narrowed.

"If it isn't my nemesis," Luongo declared, loudly.

"Jesus, Flop, you guys are so fucking loud. What are you -" Cory took in the trio, with Eddie leading Luongo by the hand, Lundqvist visibly excited. "Are you guys...?"

"Yep," Eddie said, cheerfully, as they moved past the dumbfounded Schneider.

"But, Flop, aren't you - straight..."

"Yep," Luongo grinned, echoing Lack's cheerful tone as they moved down the hall and out of sight, leaving Schneider's jaw hanging open while they turned the corner.

"I gotta say, guys, this is almost gonna be worth it just for that," Roberto declared. "I live to fuck with Ninja."

They headed quickly, and mostly-silently now, towards Lundqvist's room. As he was digging the key out of his pocket, Luongo spoke up again. "Sobering up. You got any beer?"

"I have...vodka?" Lundqvist suggested, finally unlocking the door.

"Perfect," Roberto declared, quickly spotting the clear liquid and heading towards it while Henrik shut the door firmly and practically attacked Lack with his mouth, starting immediately to unbutton his shirt in the kiss.

Eddie took his lead. He couldn't get his shirt off while they were kissing - it didn't have buttons, like Lundqvist's - but his hand moved to his shorts, untying the knot and shoving them down.

Roberto turned back around with his glass of vodka. "Oh, Jesus, you guys are...wow, okay, that was fast," he said, sounding surprised at how quickly the two Swedes had gotten mostly naked and taking a very pointed gulp of the alcohol.

/"Lube,"/ Eddie commanded Lundqvist once they'd broken apart, and the new Flame moved swiftly towards the bed. "Flops, get over here."

Luongo held up a finger while he drained the rest of the glass, making a face at the burn. He set the glass down with a _clink_ and jumped on the bed, sitting on the edge.

Silently, Eddie knelt, snapped the button open on Luongo's pants and pulling him free easily, since he wasn't wearing underwear. Henrik had turned back to the pair, lube already in hand, and nearly stopped in his tracks at the sight.

Roberto Luongo had the biggest dick he'd ever seen. It was thick and weighty and dark pink and Eddie was gazing at it with something akin to worship as he stroked. "Huh," Lundqvist said, flipping the lube cap open. "So that's why you love his dick, Moa. Size queen much?"

"Oh god, keep that weird gay shit in Swedish, please," Luongo pleaded.

/"It's fucking beautiful, isn't it?"/ Eddie confirmed in Swedish, licking one wet stripe from balls to tip which made Roberto shudder. /"I don't know why this man ended up straight. Such a fucking shame."/

Henrik had to admit, he did have a point.

Eddie had a string of precome drooling from his cock, Lundqvist noticed as he knelt down behind Lack, dragged his teeth gently down one of his ass cheeks. /"Someone's pretty into this, huh?"/

/"You have no idea. Please, Shredder. Need you inside me, soon. I wanna get fucked. Don't want Flops to come too soon, either."/

Lundqvist made a small, affirmative noise in the back of his throat, pressing a lube-drenched thumb to Eddie's entrance and making small circles, slowly pushing hard and harder until the tip of his thumb was dipping inside. Eddie was doing his best to ensure that Luongo wasn't going to come before Henrik fucked him, while still keeping his mouth on Roberto. He kept pulling off after just a few bobs to lick the head, or suck at the balls, or mouth at the sensitive area around the base. 

"Fucking tease," Roberto growled, and Henrik doubled his efforts to get Lack ready until he had three fingers curled inside, with Eddie panting harshly around Luongo's shaft.

/"Fuck me already,"/ Eddie snarled, and Henrik didn't need to be asked again. He set aside the lube and grabbed a condom out of his shorts on the floor, extra condoms scattering everywhere as he yanked one out.

Eddie caught the scene out of the corner of his eye, made a huff. /"Jesus, Shredder, what a slut. How many condoms are you carrying?"/

/"You wanna talk about _sluts,"_ / Henrik growled back, rolling the condom on and wiping the excess lube on himself, /"You're about to get every hole filled. But that's what you like, isn't it?"/

Eddie swallowed hard, flushed at Lundqvist's words.

/"That's what you like,"/ Henrik nodded, standing and grabbing Eddie's hips to keep him still so he could push inside.

Lack's breath grew a little ragged, his cheek pressed against Luongo's cock. /"You better fuck me hard, Shredder."/ Now he switched to English, looking up at Roberto. "Flops - I'm ready."

"Finally," Luongo murmured, slitting his eyes open to grab Eddie's head.

_Ready? For what?_ Henrik wondered what the two men had previously agreed upon, what their history had given them, but he didn't need to wonder too long. Roberto tangled his fingers in Eddie's hair and forced his head down, all the way down until Lack was choking and gagging, loud wet sounds as Luongo held his head steady and fucked into his mouth.

Henrik bit back as a groan as he started pumping, tried to match that tempo. /"Fuck, Moa. Just look at you. You like gagging on that dick while I'm fucking you?"/

Eddie just moaned, pulling off only to take a deep breath before Luongo forced him back down again.

/"That's right, you can't answer, your mouth is too full. You want me to touch you, you little slut?"/

Another moan, and Henrik reached down with a loose fist to stroke Lack, hips stuttering as he got close.

/"I want you to make him come, and I want him to be so far down your fucking throat that you can't even taste him. C'mon, Moa. I know you can do it."/ Henrik could see Luongo was getting close as well, his face screwed up in concentration, chewing on his lip, little groans escaping his mouth as he thrust.

A few last hard thrusts sent Henrik over the edge, and he opened his eyes just in time to see Roberto do the same, keeping Eddie's neck held down as he came. He flopped back on the bed when he was done, releasing his hold on Lack, and Henrik noticed his hand was slick; Eddie had come too, at some point.

Lundqvist patted Lack's rump fondly, keeping hold of the condom base while he pulled out, and Eddie collapsed to the floor once he was no longer supported by either man. His face was beet red, tears and snot and drool trickling down his face from being gagged, and he looked like he'd just been traumatized, except for the giant, satisfied smile on his face.

Without a word, Luongo tucked himself back in, zipped up, hopped off the bed, and grabbed the vodka jug. He tipped it back for a long drink, wiped his mouth, and was out the door. He took the vodka with him.

Both men locked eyes and started laughing. /"That was...fucking _amazing,_ Shredder."/

Henrik threw Eddie a towel. /"You too. Here, man. Get cleaned up. So...you and Flops, huh? Got a thing for throat-fucking?"/

Lack didn't even look ashamed, just grinned. /"When he lets me."/

/"Well, I don't really blame you, I guess. Anyway...you can crash here, if you want. As long as you don't snore."/

/"I don't snore."/ Lack wiped his face, looking a little more human now. /"But I think I'll head back. Better to do the walk of shame now vs early in the morning when more people will be up, eh?"/

Henrik shrugged, stealing another kiss once Eddie had gotten back to his feet and dressed. /"See you at breakfast, then?"/

/"See you at breakfast."/


	6. Story - Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NHL goalies who sweep another team in the playoffs get a special reward from The Guild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story chapter, so no porn.
> 
> Guild nicknames referenced in this chapter:
> 
> John Gibson - Flynn  
> Pekka Rinne - Badger  
> Cory Schneider - Ninja  
> Corey Crawford - Saturn (based off the 'Crow' nickname, as there is a god of Saturn, Sani, who uses crows as his vehicle)  
> Brian Elliott - Nova (based off the 'Moose' nickname, which comes from a PBS children's show; NOVA is another PBS show, and in my brain Elliott also loves space. Who doesn't, though.)

John Gibson was suitably impressed at how terrible everyone managed to look at breakfast. Only about half the Guild had even made an appearance; and those that did looked awful, with few exceptions.

"Are mornings always this rough?" he asked Craig Anderson, was sat beside him at a long table. Craig looked a little tired, but significantly better than most of the guys surrounding them. Some goalies sat at the table, eating slowly, but others were curled onto couches or chairs around the dining room. At least one or two had fallen back asleep, coffee cooling in front of them.

"Yes." Anderson shoved a chunk of sausage into his mouth. "It's only gonna get worse. Sunday morning especially is...pretty brutal for most guys."

"Did someone say Sunday morning?" a cheerful voice piped up. Cory Schneider sat across from the pair, looking relatively awake. He noticed Luongo, head buried in his arms, a few people down from him; he had two cups of coffee in front of him, one empty, one untouched. Schneider reached around to poke Roberto. "Oh, is someone having a rough morning?"

"Fuck you," came the muffled reply, Luongo not bothering to lift his head, and Cory laughed.

"Anyway, Sunday morning. Flynn, since you're new, do you know about the Sweep?"

"Er, no."

From a few seats down, Pekka Rinne turned his attention to the conversation, brightening up. "Oh, nobody told you? You are going to love it."

Cory nodded. "Right, Badger, you got a Sweep this year too, I almost forgot. Anyway, the Guild has a special rule if you sweep your opponent in the playoffs. The losing goalie, on Sunday, has to pack up your stuff for you, take it to your car, and make you breakfast."

Gibson frowned at his plate. "But we got catering in the morning."

"So?" Cory gestured to his own plate, and John noticed an amazing looking omelet sitting there. "Kitchen's fully stocked. You don't have to eat the catering. You can make your own breakfast. Or, in this case, have someone make you whatever you want."

"Ninja," came a low voice, from Luongo, "Can you make me breakfast?"

"Nope," Schneider chirped back, was rewarded with a slow middle finger from Roberto, who still hadn't lifted his head. "It's a pretty good reward. Sunday morning _is_ always crazy after Saturday parties. So it's nice to have someone get your shit together and deliver breakfast. Breakfast in bed, even!"

"But if you're not much of a partier," Pekka interjected, "You can try to negotiate something else."

John tilted his head. "Like The Payment?"

"No," Cory replied. "Unlike The Payment, the losing goalie has all the power. Maybe you don't want the standard Sweep reward of pack and breakfast, and so you can _try_ to negotiate something else, but that doesn't mean the losing goalie has to accept the negotiations. If they don't like what you suggest, they don't have to take the deal, simple as that."

"So what sort of negotiation?"

He saw Schneider and Rinne exchange a look, and Craig Anderson coughed gently next to him. "Well," Cory replied. "It can be anything. Lots of, uh...you know, favors? If that's your thing? But just get creative, I guess. Two years ago the Blackhawks swept the Wild, so Saturn asked for 2 dozen weed cookies instead of the usual." Schneider gestured to something behind John, and he turned to see the aforementioned Corey Crawford, asleep on a loveseat.

"I'll keep it in mind. Badger, are you doing anything special?"

Pekka smiled, finishing off his egg whites. "Always tempting, because I almost never get stupid-drunk to where someone taking care of my stuff would make sense. But I never know what to ask for. There is nothing I really want. So, we'll see? Keep my options open til Sunday." He nodded again at Crawford, chuckling. "Saturn might try to negotiate out of it. He is not a morning person."

"Is...Brian Elliott a morning person?" John was still having trouble remembering 60+ new nicknames, and was still getting used to being called a new one himself.

"Nova is out swimming laps in the pool," Craig responded. "So I'd say he doesn't mind."

"Might as well go with tradition for the first year, then."

"Smart choice." Luongo finally lifted his head, looking sleepy, going for his second cup of coffee. "The other tradition is that on Saturday night, we get all you Guild rookies absolutely obliterated and make you do silly things. It's like frat hazing, with less sexual assault. So you'll be happy to have someone do all your shit for you on Sunday."

Gibson looked to Schneider for confirmation, and Cory just smirked, shrugging. John turned back to his pancakes. This would be an interesting weekend.


	7. Story - Rubicon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a game tradition around the Guild, because boys are dumb. Roy and Brodeur settle a bet with the help of Dominik Hasek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that all quotes encased in this symbol : "/" means that it is in another language. For this chapter, that's French.
> 
> The "Rubicon" game as described can be seen in this GIF: http://i.imgur.com/mYs6e2c.gifv
> 
> Guild nicknames mentioned:
> 
> Jonathan Quick - Justice (named after The Justice League, as there is a DC comics character named Jonathan Quick who is similar to the Flash)  
> Patrick Roy - Dante  
> Martin Brodeur - Gabriel  
> Dominik Hasek - Shark (a play on "flopping like a fish" - but a bit of an upgrade from a fish)

/"Are you ready?"/

Martin Brodeur was laying out by the pool in a chair, trying to relax. He popped open an eye to find his sun was being blocked by Patrick Roy, who was smirking. /"The sooner we do this, the sooner I get your ass,"/ Roy explained.

From a few chairs down, Jonathan Bernier's head swung to the side to stare at the pair, and Brodeur scowled. /"You're not being very subtle. Other people speak French here, you know."/

/"Fuck subtle. So, are you ready?"/

/"I guess. Who's running Rubicon this year?"/

/"Justice."/ Patrick pointed over to Jonathan Quick, who had his nose buried in a betting book, scribbling furiously while a few guys looked over the match ups. /"I already signed us up, we're first."/

Brodeur smirked. /"So eager to get your ass beat."/

Rubicon. A Goalie Guild tradition. Marty didn't know how old it was, but the game was simple. Two trampolines on either end of a pool where the players stood. Each man had a Roman candle, and would attempt to hit the other player with the projectiles. If you got hit, you lost. Generally, if you were hit with fireworks, this also meant you'd burst into flames. That's where the pool came in.

It was named for the 'Roman' in Roman candles and the phrase _crossing the Rubicon_ which was, at some point, just shortened to Rubicon. Marty didn't know who dubbed it that, but he was quite sure that whoever it was thought they were really fucking clever.

/"Fuck you, c'mon,"/ Patrick said, starting over towards the fireworks and the Kings goalie, and Brodeur slowly pulled himself off the lounge chair, smiling wide at Bernier who was still trying not to stare as he went past.

"Well, give us a few more minutes to finalize bets," Quick was explaining to Roy as Brodeur trotted up. "You're gonna be a popular match up, so a couple guys already ran to get their friends. Give it a few. You can get dressed, if you want." He jerked his finger towards the pile of singed clothes. Since the game involved blasting fireworks at each other, everyone generally covered themselves in clothes, regardless of heat, ever since Curtis Joseph got a nasty burn in the 90s just wearing shorts and a t-shirt. Button up flannels, sweatpants, toques - more than a few guys caught their hair on fire before hats became the norm - goggles, though most guys just opted for sunglasses.

Brodeur started picking through the pile to get something that fit. He was holding up a pair of sweat pants with a critical eye when Roy breezed past him, snagging them right from his hands. /"The fuck, man,"/ Marty sighed.

/"I want those."/

/"You're such a fucking drama queen."/

By this time, the ranks of goalies around the pool had swelled, and Quick was furiously writing up bets. Ben Bishop sat next to his former teammate, helping sort out money. By the time Brodeur finished dressing, the atmosphere was jovial and a nerf fight had broken out around the periphery of the pool area.

Finally, Quick stood up. "Alright everyone, we ready to get this rolling?"

The crowd cheered. Jonathan continued, "Rubicon is officially _open_ for 2017. Match ups are up here in this book. Sign up for now or later if you want to compete. Find me for betting. First up is Dante vs Gabriel. Boys, the trampolines are yours."

"Choose your trampoline, so I don't have to hear you whine about me picking the one you wanted," Brodeur nudged Roy. Patrick took a long moment to decide, glancing between the two, before finally choosing the far side of the pool.

Bishop followed with two Roman candles, and Quick stayed by the near side trampoline, which Brodeur hopped onto. Jonathan grinned up at Marty. "Gabriel, you ready for this?"

"I'm gonna beat his ass."

"Of course," Quick agreed, nodding to Bishop across the pool once Roy was in place. He pulled out a lighter, and handed a Roman candle to Marty, coordinating with Ben to light them at the same time and then scrambling away from the fire fight.

 _Pop!_ The first brilliant red flame came shooting out of Marty's candle, straight into the pool; he had it aimed downward too low, hoping to catch Patrick off-guard on his legs. Roy's own blast was a little too high, and Brodeur barely needed to duck. Both men's second projectiles were a lot closer, with both needing to move out of the way.

It continued that way for a few more minutes, one of Patrick's well-placed blasts causing Marty to need to flop onto his back for a moment to avoid the strike, causing the crowd to whistle. Brodeur faked jumping to his feet while his firecracker popped again, which tricked Roy just enough that the flames brushed his shirt sleeve and caused it to burst into flames. With a curse, Patrick dropped the candle and jumped into the pool to put it out, the collected goalies half cheering, half booing, depending on who they'd bet for.

Brodeur pointed his Roman candle to the sky in victory, letting the fireworks crackle above him. "Great job," Quick was back by his side, grinning. "Let me know if you want any future match ups."

A sopping wet Roy stalked up to the pair at this last statement, growling. "I want a rematch."

"What? Hell no." Marty rolled his eyes. "It wasn't two out of three last night, it isn't two out of three today."

"What about if we raise the stakes?" Patrick switched to French, for the sake of the nearby Quick. /"Winner of this next one gets free access all weekend."/

/"Oh, I'd get your ass all weekend, whatever I want?"/ Brodeur pretended to think. /"Hmm...no. Fuck you."/

/"Wait! What about - ...I'll play Shark."/

 _Shark_ was Dominik Hasek, and Hasek had never, ever lost a game of Rubicon. He still played yearly, and usually some rookie would challenge him and promptly get their ass beat.

So, all Brodeur could do was whoop in laughter. /"By all means, then. I have to see this."/ He switched back to English, calling out to Quick. "Dante here wants to play _Shark."_

Quick snorted, quickly smoothing his face back to neutral at Roy's snarl. "Uh, well, it's up to him. Go issue a challenge, then."

"Fine." Patrick turned on his heel and strode over to where Hasek was relaxing under an umbrella, in conversation with Ondrej Pavelec. Both men fell silent as Roy got closer, staring at the ex-Avalanche warily as it was plain that Roy wanted something, and was in a poor mood. "Play me."

Hasek locked eyes with Pavelec for a brief moment before turning his gaze upwards to smile at Patrick. "Hello to you too, Dante. How you have been?"

"Fine. Rubicon. Play me."

Dominik just chuckled. "Maybe. I go talk with Gabriel first. Oh - " he held up a hand as Patrick started to come along. "No, you do not follow. Stay here."

Hasek left a seething Roy by the umbrella, trotting over to Brodeur and smiling, was greeted with a grin in return. "You have something going on with your friend, do you?"

"Friend," Brodeur responded dryly. "If that's what you want to call it."

"You have a bet."

Marty's eyebrows lifted. "Very observant, Shark. We do. I won't share too many details - "

"I also feel I do not want to know details." Hasek glanced back at Roy, who was glowering at the two from across the pool. "This will be a big help to you, if I win?"

"Oh yes."

"Then for you, I will play him." Hasek stretched out his hand for a shake and Brodeur took it gratefully, stepping a little closer to the Czech to murmur.

"You were always a better goalie than he was, you know."

Dominik just smirked, tilting his head. "Better at Rubicon, too," he said, and Marty just laughed, watching Hasek move to Quick to confirm the next match.

As soon as Jonathan announced _Hasek vs Roy_ , the place exploded with an excited buzz. Someone yelled, _you're gonna get your ass kicked, Dante,_ and Brodeur couldn't see who it was. Neither could Roy, apparently, who just turned red with an impotent rage as the bets were being placed and Hasek geared up. He wore only sunglasses and a toque, not bothering with arm or leg protection.

Marty had to give Patrick credit. The actual match lasted much longer than he'd expected. At one point, it appeared that Hasek's aim had rung true, glancing off Roy's shoulder, but the fresh dunk in the pool kept his shirt from igniting and Quick had ruled it a no-hit. So play continued. Finally, Roy aimed such a good shot that surely, for anyone else, it would have hit; but Hasek, still nimble, simply contorted his body in a way that produced audible gasps from the crowd and hit back with his own fireworks. Patrick was too busy admiring his previous shot to correctly jump, and his pant leg smoldered at the hit, not quite catching.

"That's it!" Quick announced, and Roy hopped off the trampoline, slamming the Roman candle down even though it was still popping fireworks, causing the nearby goalies to scatter. He dunked his leg in the pool to put out the fire and refused to look Brodeur in the eye.

"Shark, you're the _best_ ," Brodeur practically skipped past him, lifting a hand to high-five the other goalie.

"Yes," Hasek agreed, and that wasn't really what Marty meant, but he wasn't going to argue.


	8. Eddie Lack / Mike Smith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie Lack and Mike Smith get properly introduced as new goalie partners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rubicon is explained in a previous chapter; it's a game which involves shooting Roman candles at each other.
> 
> Guild names mentioned:
> 
> Eddie Lack - Moa  
> Mike Smith - Sniper. Primarily due to his goal-scoring & passing abilities (he scored a goal in his first minor league game).  
> Henrik Lundqvist - Shredder  
> Roberto Luongo - Flop

Eddie Lack _loves_ Rubicon.

Not so much for the game, although every year he vows that he's not going to be so stupid as to get in front of a thousand degrees of flame, and every year he gets drunk and does it anyway. But the camaraderie, the friendly yet intense competition against fellow goaltenders. Eddie wouldn't trade it for the world.

He's pondering whether he wants to bet on the next match up - Marc-Andre Fleury vs Ty Conklin. Ty's a goalie coach now, for the Blues, so he's still attending Guild meetings, but Eddie remembers they used to be goaltending partners, and the affection is still readily obvious. Both men are on the grass next to the pool, wrestling around and attempting to get a pin before their match starts.

"Jesus, it's like The Lion King over there," a voice hollers next to him, and Eddie feels his eyes widen. Carey Price is standing next to him, smirking at the sight.

Fleury manages to get ahold of Ty's wrists, shove them against the grass, and Carey hoots. "Oh, and Nala with the pin! Just like in the movies!"

Fleury snaps his head up, scowling, letting go of one of Ty's hands to flip Price off. "Hey," Marc yells back, "Fuck yo - whoa!" Conklin takes the opportunity to flip Marc-Andre off him, the match starting anew.

Price chuckles, and turns his gaze towards Eddie, the smirk still on his features. Eddie hopes that he's not blushing, but he's pretty sure that he is. Carey Price is intimidating. Not only because he's so good at reading body language that he's like some sort of goddamn Sherlock Holmes, but he is handsome and built and the best goalie in the league and everything that Eddie goes for.

"So, can you feel it?" Carey asks him, and now Eddie is definitely blushing, cursing himself mentally.

"Feel what?"

"The sexual tension." Price takes an exaggerated sniff of the air, like he can smell it. "All these straight boys think Rubicon's a real macho, manly affair. But really, practically half these matches have some sort of sex bet on the line between the two players. Did you see that match between Roy and Brodeur? Holy shit, you could have cut that sexual tension with a _knife_."

"Those two?" Eddie tries not to look as confused as he feels. _Those two?!_

"You couldn't tell? It was pretty obvious. But anyway, enough about old men. Speaking of bets, Eddie...are you interested in..." Carey's sharp smile fades a bit, his gaze suddenly looking past Lack. Eddie turns to follow his stare but sees nothing but a cluster of goalies talking.

"What?"

"Never mind," Carey says breezily. "It looks like you'll be occupied soon." With that, he turns on his heel to walk away.

"But - " Too late. Price was gone. He whirls back around, searching for whatever Carey saw, and maybe, there it is? Henrik Lundqvist and Mike Smith are chatting animatedly, and Lundqvist makes a gesture in Lack's direction. The guy he fucked last night, and his new goaltending partner.

Eddie is burning with curiosity over what Carey wanted from him, but also over what he saw, why he'll be "occupied soon", so he does the only thing that makes sense to him and just stays still.

He can feel more than see someone approaching him after a few minutes, and he turns to glance, and it's Mike Smith with a big smile on his face. "Moa," he calls out a greeting.

"Hey, Sniper."

"Wanted to come say hello for real. I mean, new partners, right?"

Eddie grins back. "It'll be nice to get a fresh start. I know the Flames pretty well from playing in Vancouver. Should be a lot of fun."

"Agree. It's been a rough couple years, eh?"

Eddie doesn't let his smile falter, but those words are a little painful, and he makes a _mmm_ noise in agreement. His career hadn't gone like he wanted it to after the Canucks, but he means what he said. Fresh start.

At this point, Fleury and Conklin are playing to a draw as their first candle sputters out. Lack watches as Ben Bishop and Jonathan Quick run a new Roman candle out to both men, begin to light them for round 2.

"Hey," Mike interrupts his thoughts. "I was thinking maybe of going for a walk in the woods. This place is awesome, you know? Have you explored it all? Just woods all around us. For like, miles. There's some cool trails back there."

"You want to go on a hike?" For a minute, Eddie is confused, but then he remembers Price's words. _You'll be occupied soon._ And Mike had just been talking to Henrik - ...

Oh. _Oh._

"Could be fun." Mike's grin is a little lopsided, and Eddie tilts his head, regarding his new goaltending partner critically. Smith isn't his usual type, really, but he seems the sort to take charge, like he knows exactly what he wants, and that entices Eddie enough to agree.

"Hopefully it'll be fun." Eddie gestures in a wave towards the woods. "Lead the way?"

He doesn't think anyone really notices they're leaving, too concentrated on the match, but then someone gives a soft whistle. Across the pool, Roberto Luongo is grinning his big jokester grin, and poking a finger through a circle made with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand.

Eddie grins back, flipping Luongo off and following Smith past the crowd.

They walk for what feels like forever to Eddie, who is not quite wearing the right footwear for a hike in his flip flops. Along the way, they talk about their new team, their goaltending styles, goalie coaches, what they're looking for in buying a new home, playing in Canada...so much chatting that Eddie starts to think that maybe Mike really _did_ want to just go for a hike. "Man, how far out are we?"

"I dunno, maybe a mile?" Mike pauses to look around. Here, the trees have thinned out. It's not quite a clearing, but it's close. "Far enough out that no one can hear us."

"If you're planning to murder me to ensure I don't challenge for the #1 spot, it's a pretty bad place to do so. People will realize I'm missing in...I mean, at least 2 weeks." Eddie tries to keep a straight face at Mike's inquisitive look, but can't hold it in and bursts out laughing. His new goaltending partner joins in.

"I mean, you might scream. But not from murder."

"Oh?" Eddie finds a stump and plops down, trying to look innocent.

"Shredder told me about you and Luongo. I figure, what better way to get to know your goaltending partner?" Mike steps up until he's hovering over Eddie, still sitting on the stump.

"Well, Shredder should have also told you about Flop's special gift, then. He's got the biggest cock I've ever seen. You think you're up to that challenge?" Lack reaches out, pressing his palm against the front of Mike's shorts.

"Big enough to choke you. That's what you like, isn't it?" Smith tilts his hips into the touch. "You like being tossed around a little, Moa?"

Eddie lifts his chin defiantly. "I like men that know what they want, and take it."

"Well, I want _you._ " Mike reaches down to pull Eddie up into a kiss, fumbles for the hem of his shirt to yank it up. They have to part for Smith to pull Eddie's shirt off, and Lack reaches to undress the other man but gets his hand playfully slapped away.

"Nope," Mike chirps back. "I stay clothed...for now. You get naked."

"Guess I don't have a choice," Eddie quips as Mike takes matters into his own hands, pulling at the zipper on Lack's shorts. "Why do you stay clothed? You embarrassed or something?"

"Not quite." Mike takes a short step backwards, eyes sweeping over Eddie's now-naked body, his clothes in a heap on the forest floor except for his flip flops. Lack isn't much to be shy, at least of his body, so he puts two hands on his hips and pushes out his chest in a superhero pose, grinning.

"What then?"

"Well..." Mike's eyes finish their inspection, tilting his head back up to meet Eddie's gaze. "There's just something about you being naked and me still with clothes on. Like I have all the options, all the power. And you're just waiting for my cock, but I'm not going to give it to you yet."

Eddie licks his lips, suddenly dry. "Even if I beg for it?"

" _Maybe_ if you beg for it." Mike's arm snaps out to grab Eddie by the wrist, pushing him face-first against a nearby tree.

"What - " Eddie's question turns into a hiss as Mike bites him in the meat of the shoulder, followed by a gentle suck and a few apologetic licks.

"Shhh," Smith mumbles against his skin, then bites a line down Eddie's back, each time following it with a lapping, soothing tongue.

Eddie is vaguely horrified over what his back is going to look like to everyone, bite marks and hickeys everywhere, but it feels so good that he doesn't protest. He shivers at each new sensation, marveling at how different places on his back feel so different, the skin sensitive on the small of his back, rougher by his rib cage. Mike drags his nails down Eddie's side and Lack's hips involuntarily twitch as they slide down his hips, tantalizingly close to his hard cock. He tries to mutter Mike's nickname, _Sniper,_ but all that comes out is a hissing _sssss_ sound.

Mike's kneeling, now, one hand on each of his ass cheeks, kneading and squeezing like he's inspecting them before peeling them open and softly, almost-delicately flicking his tongue against the pink pucker.

"Sniper," Eddie growls, finally getting the entire name out, but loses his voice again as Mike's arm wraps around his hip to the front, stroking his cock the same time his tongue is working on the back.

Eddie scoots his feet backwards to stick his butt out, almost obscenely, his arms folded over his head and pressed hard against the tree. The bark bites into his forearms as he drapes his entire weight on the tree, not trusting his legs to hold him up. The sensation of the unyielding tree, the small of pine, the firm strokes and the wet tongue is too much. He bucks his hips into the touch, so close...

Mike stops abruptly, hand falling away and mouth continuing down his legs with the same bite-suck. Eddie growls in frustration. "I was close, c'mon..."

"Is that so," Mike responds with a tone that clearly indicates he was 100% aware of that fact. Smith reaches the back of his knees, not enough to bite at that area, so just gently scraping his teeth behind the kneecap before nipping the calf. He does the same to the other leg, some spit rolling slowly down Eddie's thigh, just one of the things making him squirm.

"Turn," Mike commands, emphasizing his point with a slap on Eddie's ass. He does so, back thudding against the tree and immediately regretting it as the jagged bark presses against the bites, now sore and red.

"Your _legs,"_ Smith breaths out reverently, tracing the cord of muscle down the inside of Eddie's thigh. "Fuck, I love goalie legs." He starts the same treatment as Eddie's back to the tops of his thighs, bites a little softer now. Mike's occasionally puffing a breath on Lack's balls while he sucks the inner thigh, so close to his achingly hard cock that it's driving Eddie insane.

"Mike," Eddie breaths out, softly, and hearing his real name jerks Smith's head upwards. "Please? I need - I can't - ..."

"I know. I'm a tease," Mike responds, but he doesn't sound apologetic at all. He does, however, acquiesce to Lack's request, trailing his bottom lip up the edge of Eddie's length before opening his mouth and taking him in.

Eddie tries his hardest not to squirm; there's a particularly rough, jagged piece of tree knot poking right into his shoulder blade, right on top of one of Mike's earlier bites, and it hurts, but not enough to move away or do anything but hang his mouth open and groan at the sight and sensation. Mike keeps taking three or four long, deep bobs, then pulling off for a few seconds and going back down. It's never quite enough to establish a real rhythm, and Eddie can feel a knot in his stomach slithering up his throat to a yell of frustration. What he's getting is good, Mike's mouth is amazing, but it's not enough.

Mike pulls off at the frustrated growl, chuckling. "My turn," he declares, abruptly standing up and leaving Eddie's jaw slack in response.

"But - but - "

"I promise," Mike says, "When you finally come, it'll be the best fuckin' orgasm of your life. But not yet." He pulls Eddie into a soft kiss, almost sweet, staying close to the other man's lips when he speaks next. "Let me fuck your mouth? Please?"

Eddie is a sucker for that kind of request.

"Better be worth it, Sniper," he warns, trying to sound menacing, sinking into a crouch; he doesn't want to get on his knees on the rough forest floor.

"Promise," Mike agrees, and he sounds sincere enough, pulling the zipper down on his shorts but keeping them buttoned. He pulls aside his boxers so he's poking out of his shorts, fully clothed otherwise, and Eddie can't help but find the scene a little hot, with him naked and exposed and Mike just having his underwear pulled aside. Mike's not as big as Luongo, not nearly, but he's thick and hard as a rock.

Eddie opens his mouth, flicking his tongue at Smith obscenely, and Mike takes the invitation, holding Lack's head steady to guide himself in. His cock is wide enough that Eddie has to open his mouth wider to get his teeth out of the way, and Mike sighs in appreciation.

"So good, Moa," he praises, keeping both hands on Eddie's head as he starts to rock his hips. "Stretch your mouth out for me."

Mike digs his thumbs into Eddie's temples while he thrusts, starting shallow but rocking deeper and harder, enough that he's all the way down Eddie's throat, Lack's nose bouncing off his lower belly. Mike reaches down to pinch Eddie's nose shut while he thrusts, keeping it closed for a long few seconds before Lack has to pull off, gasping for air, eyes watering.

Mike tilts his head with the unspoken question - _is that okay?_ Eddie doesn't respond, just opens his mouth back up for the other man, who thrusts back in. He gives Lack a few seconds of breathing before closing off his airways again, and repeats the sequence a few times; fucking Eddie's mouth until the Swede has to pull off, choking and coughing and drooling.

"Do you know how fucking hot you look right now?" Mike's thrusting now, hard and fast, Eddie's jaw starting to ache from holding it open to long. "God, and you feel so good. I'm gonna - can I come in your mouth...?"

Lack swivels his head up and down in a nod as best he can, eyes closed, and that seems to send Smith over the edge with one last thrust and a loud, long groan, curling his fingers in Eddie's hair.

Eddie sniffles when Mike takes a step back, dropping out of his mouth. He drags a hand down his face to wipe it, and is painfully aware that he's still mostly hard, that Mike's orgasm has brought his attention back to his own cock, having been brought to the edge and stopped twice now. Everything feels like a tight knot, and Lack slowly, shakily stands back up, not quite trusting his legs at the moment.

Mike beams at him and envelopes him in a kiss, reaching between them to stroke Eddie, whose cock springs back to fully erect at the touch. He can feel himself melting against Mike, and back against the tree, but doesn't care. "Please?" he murmurs when they part. "Please."

Mike doesn't answer, just nods, sinking back down to his knees and regarding the cock bobbing in the empty air for just a moment. Eddie's just about to growl another plea when Mike relents, closing his lips over the head before sliding them further down the shaft and starting a bobbing rhythm, his hand twisting over everything that can't fit into his mouth. He pulls off for just a moment to lick a wet stripe down his palm so the friction in the jerking isn't too much, tempered by the spit, but goes right back down.

Eddie's not usually much of a screamer, but there are noises escaping him that might be embarrassing if they were closer to civilization. To come so close multiple times and then be denied, it feels like there's a a searing heat roiling in his stomach that scorches all the way up to his mouth. The back of his throat feels hot and heavy, his mouth dry, and he's not sure if it's this need to finally come or Mike's earlier abuse of his mouth.

He doesn't ask, like Smith did, whether it's okay to come in his mouth, couldn't form the words even if he thought to be polite. He teeters on what feels like the edge of a cliff for a long, long second before Mike reaches down to cup his balls and the touch sends Eddie over, his loud cry causing a few birds to alight into the air, away from the clearing.

Mike swallows without a noise of protest, and pulls away to smile in satisfaction. The smile turns into a note of surprise as he has to reach up to steady Lack, who almost goes down on his knees. "Whoa, buddy. You okay there?"

"Yeah." The brain fog is slowly clearing, and Eddie is able to stand again, blinking slowly. "That was _crazy,_ Sniper. I mean, I kind of hated it during, for you to keep cutting me off like that, but when I _did_ come..."

"One guy I screwed around with sometimes, I used to tie him to a chair and get him close, over and over again. One, two hours. He passed out once from coming," Mike tells him, and sounds proud as hell and Eddie doesn't blame him. Hell, he'd probably tell _everyone_ if he ever made a guy pass out from an orgasm.

"I dunno about _that_ , Sniper, but...who knows." Eddie grins. "It's a long season, eh?"


	9. Cam Ward / John Gibson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cam Ward introduces John Gibson to drugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drug usage is happening in this chapter: ecstasy, coke, poppers and mushrooms. Remember to be safe.
> 
> Guild names mentioned in this chapter:
> 
> Antti Raanta - Desperado  
> John Gibson - Flynn  
> Cam Ward - Dixie  
> Carey Price - Showcase

John Gibson's buzz was starting to wear off, and it was all Ryan Miller's fault.

"This one really stretches out your hip flexors," Miller was saying to the young duo of John and Matt Murray, who had previously been drinking heavily before somehow roped into a discussion of Ryan's off-season techniques for staying healthy. Now he was showing them some yoga poses. Gibson glanced at Matt with a look in his eyes that he hoped convey something like, _dude, it's 10p on Friday night and we are watching Ryan Miller do yoga, what in the fuck!_ He couldn't risk alienating his new goalie partner, but Matt...

Luckily, the young Penguin picked up on John's look. "Well," Murray piped up, sounding too cheerful, "This has been very enlightening. However, we have a - uh, date - at the hot tub."

"A date?" Ryan stopped his painful-looking stretch to tilt his head up at the pair. "Oh, you two are...?"

"No!" Matt and John burst in, nearly simultaneously.

"It's not a real, like, date-date. We're going to play Kings," Murray finished.

"In the hot tub?"

"It's the new thing," John said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. _Kings, Matt, really?_

Miller, for his part, just shrugged, smiling. "Well, that's when you know you're getting old, eh? Flynn, I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to catch up. You guys have fun."

Both men murmured a thanks and turned, trotting off in the direction of the pool. "Kings, Muzz? In the hot tub?"

"Hey, I didn't see you coming up with anything better," Matt shot back. "We got outta there, didn't we?"

"Guess we did. Thanks."

"No worries, I wanted to get outta there too." Matt tilted a grin in John's direction. "Good luck with _that_ during the season. Hey, speaking of hot tubs, you wanna go? I did promise Raants...uh, what's his nickname..."

"Desperado."

"Yeah. I promised _Desperado_ to talk to him about taking over the starting job and some shit I've learned, and I know he'll be there, he's like obsessed with hot tubs. You wanna come?"

John crinkled his nose at the thought. "Hot tubs are fucking disgusting, man. You couldn't pay me to get in there."

"Suit yourself."

"Text me if you guys end up playing another round of slip n'slide flip cup, though?"

"For sure." Matt gave him a bro-type handshake that the two had been slowly perfecting all weekend, then headed off in the direction of the pool.

John glanced around. He needed a drink, and more company would be nice, as well. Off to his left, he heard the familiar sound of a bottle opener cracking some sort of beverage open, towards the direction of the bonfire, and decided to head that way.

Around the fire, there was a group that seemed pleasantly buzzed. Tuukka Rask was entertaining a small crowd with some sort of story; Thomas Greiss was showing off video of his bike racing to another couple guys. John spotted a cooler, dug into it to grab something to drink. It was a bunch of hoppy IPAs on top that he thought were disgusting, and he had to dig deep before coming away with a Labatt Blue towards the bottom.

"You kids always have the most discerning tastes," a voice came from beside him, and John looked up to see Cam Ward, smirking and holding up a bottle opener from his seat near the cooler. "I don't even think you need this, do you?"

Instead of responding, John twisted off the top, took a drink, and grinned at Cam. Ward just laughed, nodding to indicate a free seat next to him. "Have a seat, if you want."

_What the hell,_ John thought, and plopped down in the chair next to Cam. "Thanks, man. Your nickname...it's...Dixie, right?"

Ward nodded, eyebrow raising as if expecting something.

"Oh." John shifted, took a long drink of his beer. "Isn't that...I mean..."

"Racist?" Cam finished. "You kids always seem uncomfortable with my nickname. I get it, I do. I got the nickname because there's some Alabama politician with my exact name, plus we were one of the first real successful Southern teams. So, _Dixie._ I agree that it's got somewhat complicated connotations, but you gotta remember also it was over 10 years ago. A lot changes in 10 years."

"Ain't that the truth," John muttered, taking another sip.

"Call me Cam if you're uncomfortable. Or Wardo." Cam grinned. "I know everyone here likes to pretend they're in the 007 program and insist on _only_ calling people by their secret Guild names like they're James Bond. But it's no big deal."

"Okay. Cam." Gibson snorted, taking another drink. "And _'kids.'_ Aren't you like, 33?"

"Over 600 games played, newbie," Ward shot back. "I feel pretty old sometimes." Cam looked down into his glass, and John noticed he was drinking a Powerade, not a beer. "Be nice to your new goalie partner, too. Sometimes it isn't easy when us old guys lose their starting jobs."

John had nearly forgotten about the situation in Carolina, since Scott Darling wasn't in the Guild yet. "Yeah, well, I'm more worried about _me_ losing my starting job. Ryan might be, like, 37, but he's still Ryan Miller."

"Nah. He'll push you hard and you'll come out the other side with him retiring and you in a solid starter position, whether that's with Anaheim or somewhere else." Cam was studying his face now, and John felt himself blushing a little, taking a long swig to hide it. "Enjoy it. It goes by too fast."

"Yeah," John agreed, and he suddenly very much wanted to change the subject, away from hockey. "Why're you drinking a Powerade, anyway? I figured everyone here would be drunk off their asses. Or in the process of it, at least."

"Oh." Cam lifted the blue bottle as if to toast the Duck. "I never drink alcohol if I'm planning on getting fucked up. I never want to chance how alcohol is gonna mix, you know?"

_Fucked up?_ Cam must have seen John's questioning look, so he continued. "You know...drugs. Fucked up?"

"Oh, uh, yeah man. What sort of drugs?" John had never done any drugs, outside of booze and a little pot.

"You can pretty much get whatever you want, here. I stay away from opioids, like heroin and shit? I've seen a lot of bad news around that stuff. But some other stuff is fine. As long as you leave it here, during the summer, and don't touch any shit during the season, you'll be fine." Cam grinned, taking another sip of Powerade. "No drugs for you, I take it? Too young for this shit, eh?"

Gibson huffed in dismay at the 'young' talk. He belonged here, deserved to be part of this Guild like anyone else, regardless of his age. "No way. I'll do something with you. What are you thinkin'?"

"I dunno yet. Let's go look and see what our choices are, shall we?" Cam stood up, stretching.

"Where do we go?"

"Just follow me."

John followed Cam away from the bonfire, towards one of the buildings. Inside was almost eerily quiet compared to the outdoors; John could hear faint echoes of the parties happening outside. A cheer went up outside and Gibson thought he could hear the _chug, chug, chug!_ chant. Inside, so soft that John thought he might be imagining it, moaning was coming from someone's room.

Cam tilted his ear to the sky as he walked, obviously hearing the sex sounds as well. "So, John - or do you prefer Flynn?"

"John's fine," Gibson mumbled. _Flynn_ was still too strange, sounded wrong to be called by that name.

"John," Cam nodded. "Are you gay?"

John's eyes widened at Ward's forward question, and suddenly he realized what _that look_ that Cam was giving him earlier might have been. "Oh, uh - I mean, I don't like to label myself that way, but...I'm more of a...free spirit? Go with the flow?"

"I only ask because some of these drugs make you want to fuck." Cam was peering closely at room numbers now, slowing down. "And I would be more than happy to oblige, but like...no pressure, or anything. No strings, no weirdness, just...if that free spirit of yours gets moved to do so, you know."

"Got it," John replied, and despite the earlier protests, he suddenly did feel very young and overwhelmed.

Cam stopped at one of the doors, non-descript and no different than any other except the key was sticking out of the lock. Ward turned it, the heavy door opening with a creak. Inside were two couples, and John wasn't sure he would have guessed who they were if you'd given him all day.

Cam seemed sort of surprised himself, at least at the couple on the bed. Half under the covers and propped up on the pillows was Braden Holtby and Marc-Andre Fleury. They weren't naked, weren't having sex, but they were in an intimate snuggle, wrapped around each other closely.

On the couch was Carey Price and Henrik Lundqvist. They were naked, and hard, and pressed against each other. Carey had flaming red scratches down his back, which was turned towards the new arrivals, and was holding Henrik's hands pinned to his sides. Lundqvist was struggling half-heartedly. "Stop squirming, you dumb shit," Carey snapped to Henrik, and though John couldn't see his face, it was suddenly very obvious that he was, as Cam would say, _fucked up._ There was white powder in a thin line on Henrik's chest, which Price bent to lick up.

John was so immersed in the scene on the couch, staring at the two veteran goalies, that he nearly jumped out of his skin at Fleury's face suddenly appearing in front of him. Marc-Andre had untangled himself from the Caps goalie on the bed, who looked spaced out, blinking slowly at the ceiling. Gibson noticed now, with Marc-Andre's proximity, his glassy eyes and dilated pupils.

"Dixie," Fleury murmured, sounding delighted, pulling Cam into a warm hug.

"Hey, Flower," Ward rubbed Fleury's back fondly. "How are you doing? You and Holts, huh?"

"We love each other," Marc-Andre stated, matter-of-fact, then pulled away and grinned at Cam. "But I love you, too." Fleury bent in for a kiss, close-mouthed and soft, which Cam accepted.

"Well," Cam said, once the kiss had broken, "Me and my new friend here are looking for something fun to do. What you got?"

"Is not me, it's Showcase's stuff. Top drawer," Fleury gestured vaguely towards the room's dresser. "The molly is good."

"Thanks, Flower." Cam grabbed John by the arm, steering him towards the dresser and lowering his voice. "That stuff that Flower and Holts is on, that stuff relaxes you, makes you very, uh, kumbaya and shit to the world. Not a lot of danger to it unless you're dancing and you overheat or dehydrate, but I don't like it much. I get all nauseous and I can't get it up." Ward opened the drawer, peering inside, his gaze flicking over to Price and Lundqvist. Neither man had acknowledged their presence yet; Carey had been flipped over at some point and was now underneath Henrik. His previous snarls towards the Swede had turned into sighs and whimpers while Lundqvist lapped at the sweat pooled at his neck.

"Cocaine, obviously, for those two," Ward picked up a baggie of white powder, looked thoughtful, put it down. "Not for your first time. Let's start off small but fun, shall we?"

"Right," John agreed. There was too much to pay attention to; the various powders and liquids in the top drawer, and the four veteran goalies in varying states of alertness and nakedness around the room. It was all so surreal. He tried not to stare too much at Carey grinding up against Lundqvist; Price was making a mewling sound that was hard to ignore.

"Here we go," Cam announced, picking up a small bottle of liquid, a sandwich baggie, and a few cotton balls. He also grabbed a lemon and a vial of powder. "Thanks, boys," he said, raising his voice to be heard. Price and Lundqvist again ignored him; the pair on the bed, back to cuddling, chirped their goodbyes.

"I love you!" Fleury reminded Cam as the Canes goalie shut the door, and started laughing at the expression on John's face.

"What, what's wrong?"

"That was weird, man." Gibson shook his head, as if trying to scramble the previous scene into making sense.

"What, it's weird seeing your coworkers high on coke and in the middle of sex? That's not normal?" Cam smirked, his tone playful. "Welcome to being a pro athlete, right?"

"Guess so."

"You wanna go back to my room? I'm just a few doors down."

"Sure. Why not." John tried peeking at the items clutched in Cam's hand. "What did you pick? Is that a...lemon?"

"It is. Here, hold." Cam dumped the items onto John's outstretched hands while he patted his pockets down for his key. True to his word, Ward's door was only three down from Price's.

Cam's room was neat and non-descript, except for all sorts of drinks, stacked neatly on the table; water jugs, orange juice, ginger ale, Coke and Mt Dew. Cam took the lemon and the powder, setting them on the table, and instead held up the liquid, the baggie, and the cotton balls.

"What is it?"

"Poppers. Have you heard of them?"

John shrugged. He knew they were some sort of club drug, and popular with gay men, but that was about it.

"These will give you the best sex of your life." Cam wasn't looking at John anymore, keeping his gaze on the bottle. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm being a little, uh, forward. I don't mean to be pushy. I just think you're pretty hot, that's all. I brought shrooms, too, in case you don't want to - "

"Shit won't get weird, right?"

"Huh?" Cam lifted his head quizzically.

"I'm new here, so...I mean, I've never just...with another NHL'er? I just don't want to come back next year and things be awkward between us?"

Cam visibly relaxed, chuckling. "No. It won't be awkward. It really never is, unless someone does something silly like falling in love. I mean, could you tell from today's parties who's had some juicy past history?"

John stopped to think. Everyone had basically acted like a big frat party, for the most part. There were a few cases of obvious sexual tension - Carey Price just seemed to be sexually checking out _everyone,_ all the time, and there was this gross Roy / Brodeur thing that was _definitely_ a thing, but otherwise it seemed generally platonic, on the surface. "No, I guess not."

"So just don't fall in love with me," Cam said, tone light and joking.

"No worries there, you're too old," John shot back, and both men laughed. "Alright, really though...before we do these...maybe I could check you out sober? I want to remember a little of tonight, after all."

Cam placed the bottle and swabs gently on the end table, gesturing John to come over. He started to pull his t-shirt over his head. "Your memory won't be affected on poppers," he explained, his voice muffled inside his shirt until he got it off. "It's a good first time drug. I've never heard of anyone getting addicted, or anything."

John kicked off his shoes, sat down on the bed to watch Cam undress. "One of my teammates is pretty bad about coke. Got 'injured' last year, but it was really rehab. Makes me nervous."

"Carey Price should not be a model for any off-ice behavior. On-ice, that's different. But...just be careful. Do what you wanna do, and don't let anyone pressure you into anything else." Ward had started on his shorts next, was wiggling them down his thighs. "There's plenty of guys here who drink some booze and nothing else and have a great time. No shame in it. To some extent, you kinda gotta go looking for the seedy underbelly."

"Speaking of belly," John said, reaching forward to curl longer fingers around Cam's bare stomach. The older man groaned.

"Do you _want_ me to shut you up?"

"Maybe I do." John grinned, wrapping his arms around Cam's neck as the Hurricane dropped down, pressing Gibson into the sheets with a kiss. Ward climbed on top while they kissed to straddle his hips, slowly dragging John's shirt untucked.

"What's your preference?" Cam asked, lazily grinding his hips down.

John blinked, the friction making everything hard to think. "Uh - on what?"

"Top. Bottom. I switch, I don't care."

John grinned, reaching around to cup Cam's ass and give it a squeeze. He bucked up, half-hard already. "Oh. Yeah, me too."

"Well, how about we break out those poppers and you tell me what your preference is. Sometimes they make me want to fuck everything in sight, and sometimes I feel like I'll scream if I don't _get_ fucked. Let's see what it'll be for you." Cam climbed off John's lap for a moment, opening the small bottle of liquid.

"What if the poppers make us both want to top? Or bottom? What then?"

Cam winked at the younger man. "Well lucky for you I'm a damn gentleman and I'll still let you pick. So, young padawan, this liquid is nitrates, or poppers. You just take a deep smell and the magic happens. You can sniff right from the bottle, but I find if I do that, it only lasts like not even a minute and I have to keep sniffing, like a lot. So I put some on these cotton balls and then put them in the baggie and you can breath from there. Seems to last longer, a few minutes. You will need to keep huffing, though, to keep your buzz on. And don't let this stuff touch your skin if you can help it." John could smell the new aroma as Cam carefully wet down one side of a few cotton balls, popped them in the baggie and held it out. "Open your mouth. Breath in deep."

John leaned over and did as instructed, letting the smell wash down his throat and nose. For a long moment he was dizzy, and was upset at it; _this isn't working, this is unfair,_ he thought, but suddenly blood came roaring up to his head and his breath caught in a stuttering gasp. He felt like he was 15 again, his first time with a girl in his bedroom. He'd been unable to catch his breath that it was finally happening, losing his virginity, his dick so hard it had almost hurt. He was 17 again, with a teammate in their hotel room at a tournament; his teammate had been scrolling through videos on his phone when gay porn started playing, gay porn that he had saved and watched, and John's stomach had suddenly twisted in knots so bad he nearly felt like puking, because he'd wanted to suck his friend's cock for years and he realized then that it might actually happen. It was every _first time_ and new experience all wrapped into one.

Cam was inhaling, too, and John knew he should wait, should be polite. Instead, he practically bashed into the Hurricane, knocking him on his back, the baggie still held between his fingers. "Cam," John growled, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. "I want you to fuck me _right now."_

John could see the poppers kicking in for Cam, as well, the soft gaze sharpening into a more predatory, hungry assessment. "Take off your fucking shorts already, then."

The two men pawed at the rest of their clothes, Cam still wearing boxers, John wearing everything except shoes; they'd only managed to get his shirt untucked. John bicycle-kicked off his shorts and boxers, almost frantic. He felt like he did after long hockey games: a deep pit of emptiness in his stomach, having burned up all his calories on goaltending. But this hunger wasn't for food.

John hadn't even taken off his shirt yet, but that didn't deter Cam, who seemed just as needy. "Your ass is fucking _perfect,"_ Cam breathed out reverently, grabbing at John's upper thighs. "God, I can't wait to fuck it." He used one hand to spread John's ass open, dragging a wet tongue against his entrance.

John huffed a short breath out of his nose. There hadn't even been a hint of lube yet but he felt ready, although the high was slowly muting into a dull buzz as the first hit wore off; it was being held in place momentarily by Cam's smart tongue, but John felt himself teetering, nearly back to himself.

Ward pulled back suddenly, as if sensing the change, grabbing the bag again. "Here." He didn't take a sniff himself, instead stalking over to his dresser, nearly quivering.

John took another hit, holding one nostril closed this time like he'd seen Cam doing. He felt himself being yanked away from the edge, back down into the abyss, the black hole of need and desire roaring to life again. "Please," he said to Cam's back, who was still looking for something in his dresser. He heard his voice, low and thick and needy like he was begging for water in a desert, and it wasn't a voice he'd ever heard before from himself but he didn't care right now. The only thing that mattered was Cam, and his dick. "Fuck me. Take another hit. Cam, _Cam."_

"Wait!" Ward hissed out a breath between his teeth, and he sounded like he was struggling for control as well. "If I take another hit I'm going to end up fucking you bareback. Let me get a condom and lube while I still have some senses."

"You can fuck me raw, Cam, just _please."_

Cam made a strangled, frustrated noise at the back of his throat, but managed to grab what he was looking for. He threw the small lube bottle at the other goalie, John snatching it deftly out of the air.

"I know it feels like you're ready to go - poppers make everything open up and relax - but unless you're into blood play, it's gonna hurt later if we don't use at least a little lube. You wanna get your hole filled ASAP? Finger fuck yourself with some lube for me."

John already had lube spread on his fingers before Ward was even done talking. He rolled up onto his shoulders, curling an arm between his own thighs and pressing two fingers there. Normally it was a little painful, with John needing to force himself to relax, bear down, open up, to get ready. Today, though, he slid a finger up to the second knuckle, no pain, just a need for more. John allowed himself a moment of wonder at this drug that got him ready so fast, staring at Cam, who was slowly, excruciatingly slowly, rolling the condom on his hard cock.

"Look," he cooed at Cam, finger fucking himself. "I can't wait for this to be you."

Ward, for his part, visibly relaxed once he got the condom on, as if he was giving himself permission to let go. He was back at the bed in two long strides, taking a long sniff of the poppers, holding his breath in like he was smoking before puffing it out. Cam held the bag under John's nose for him, and he did the same, holding his breath for a moment. He was hit with a moment of dizziness at that, decided not to press his luck further.

John shook his head after a long moment, the dizziness fading, the only thing left was this raging, angry, empty beast inside of him that demanded sex, _right now_. Cam was in the process of stroking lube onto himself, but John didn't want to wait anymore; he knocked the lube out of Ward's hands.

"Hey - " Cam protested as John hauled him down to the bed, onto his back.

"You're too slow, old man." Gibson shoved Cam's shoulders down to the bed and maneuvered himself until he was kneeling above Ward's hips, reaching behind to grab his cock and sinking down. Normally if John was riding a guy he'd try and make it sexy, start off slow and coy, show the top that he was really in charge of setting the pace. But this time was different; Cam's erection slid around his entrance for a moment, slick with lube, before finding the right angle. John sat hard, sinking to the hilt, and both men groaned.

"Oh, fuck," John gasped, the itching need inside of him sated for a moment, like Cam's cock belonged inside of him. After a moment, the monster came clawing back up his groin and stomach. _Move!_ It yelled, and John obeyed, desperately lifting himself up and back down. Cam grabbed his hips, made deep half-moon prints with his nails as they dug in, helping John ride him.

It wasn't enough. John wanted nothing more at that moment than to be flipped over and pounded into the sheets until he couldn't think anymore. "Harder," he barked at Cam, pulling himself up and off and collapsing onto his stomach on the bed. "Please."

Suddenly, the clear baggie was next to his head. "No more until you're just about to come," Ward commanded. "Then take a deep breath and holy fuck. You're going to come so hard that it's going to be really uncomfortable for you when you play us next." Cam grabbed the back of John's shirt, which was still on, crumpling the fabric in his fist to yank Gibson back onto his knees and pushing back inside. "You're gonna see me across the ice, or on the bench, and you're gonna think about me fucking you, and you're gonna have the worst game of your life dreaming about a cock in your ass."

John wanted to say something, chirp back, think of a witty retort. Instead, he just rutted backwards towards Cam's hard thrusts, whining. "Just - don't fucking stop, oh god, please."

Cam kept a hand tangled in John's shirt, and he felt the seams pulling as Ward used it to rock John back into him. He realized with some amazement that Cam hadn't touched his cock, not once today, and yet he was so fucking hard he was going to burst. Frustration bubbled inside him as he got close and stayed there for a long, excruciating moment. He reached down with one hand to stroke himself, the other grabbing for the bag.

John took one last, deep drag from the bag and instantly, the dull edges of his nerves sharpened and tingled and once again he could feel _everything _. New sensations, things he'd never paid attention to, the callouses on his hands running friction over his cock, stroking, and Cam's balls slapping his ass, and the soft cotton blend of his shirt gently pin pricking his skin.__

John wasn't much of a screamer, usually, but he couldn't stop the _oh god oh god oh god,_ how many times did he say it, five, six, maybe more as he came in his hand.

__He wanted to crash down onto the bed, ooze bonelessly into a slump, but Cam kept his hips up with a firm grip. "Give - me - ..." his breath was ragged, and John picked up the bag, threw it behind him. Cam took his last hit too as he tipped over the edge with a growl._ _

__John was a little lightheaded, now, his throat dry and parched. Cam pulled out slowly, tying off the condom and tossing it in the trash, then gently pulling John onto his back for a kiss._ _

__"That was fucking incredible," John mumbled against Cam's mouth._ _

__"You're so hot," Cam murmured back. They stayed like that for a long moment, kissing lazily while the pounding in John's head lessened. Cam pulled away suddenly, grabbing his wrist and regarding John's hand, splattered with come. Very deliberately he sucked each of John's fingers delicately into his mouth until they were clean, then ran his tongue in circles around Gibson's palm. Cam looked into his eyes the whole time._ _

__"Holy fuck," John whimpered, too tired to fuck again but feeling that familiar spike of adrenaline and horniness at the sight._ _

__Cam just winked, pulling away when his phone made a telltale beep-boop, warning it was dying. While he was searching for his charger, Gibson took the opportunity to head over to Cam's collection of drinks, grabbing a water jug and taking a long sip._ _

__He wandered back over to his shorts, grabbing his own phone. 47% charged and a few messages from Matt Murray about beer pong._ _

_Sorry I couldnt make it. Got busy. Will c u tomorrow,_ he wrote back. Then, as an afterthought, he continued, _so Fleury and Holtby huh?_

__"I missed a good game of beer pong, apparently, but I'd miss every game of beer pong for this," he told Cam. "That was, like...really good, man. Fucking mind blowing. I've never felt like that before."_ _

__Cam glanced up from his phone where he was texting someone, too, and grinned. "Unfortunately, they stop working after awhile, so it's good we came when we did. You sort of over saturate yourself, I guess. My wife says you're cute, by the way."_ _

"Your - what?" John blinked. "I'm sorry, did you say your _wife_?"

__"Yeah?" Cam held up a hand, and John noticed the wedding ring for the first time._ _

__"Did you tell her we fucked?"_ _

"Oh, she's going to demand all the details, my friend." Cam set his phone aside, smiling. "I'm lucky, I know it. We're pretty open. I love her, so much, but it seems like I'm always gone. I want her to be fulfilled, and she wants the same for me." Cam's smile sharpened. "Maybe next time you come to Raleigh, if you're in town for a few days, stop by my place and you can fuck me while my wife watches. And then if you're a _really_ good boy, you can fuck her too."

__"Watch out, I'll get fucking horny again all over, man." He passed the jug of water to Ward after taking another sip._ _

__"Offer stands, just let me know."_ _

__"I will. And I gotta know, man - what's up with the _lemon_?"_ _

__"Oh, the lemon!" Cam took another sip of water, springing up to grab the powder and lemon. "So these are ground up shrooms. If you mix the citrus with the shrooms, you get high faster. Normally shrooms take like an hour to hit. People say it's bullshit but I swear, adding in citrus reduces the time to like 30 minutes. It's called a lemon tek. You wanna try it?"_ _

__"Shrooms, huh?"_ _

__"You'll love this shit. Perfect after-sex chilling drug. We can watch a movie and just trip and then maybe I can give you a blowjob before breakfast?"_ _

__John grinned. "Lemon tek now, blowjob later. Let's do it."_ _


	10. Marc-Andre Fleury / Braden Holtby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makeup and first-time prostate massages. Drugs make everything a little more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drug usage is happening in this chapter, mostly ecstasy.
> 
> Guild names mentioned in this chapter:
> 
> Marc-Andre Fleury : Dolphin  
> Braden Holtby : McCoy  
> Carey Price : Showcase

Braden Holtby loved Marc-Andre Fleury more than anything in the world.

For the moment, anyway.

There was a small, quiet part of Braden's brain that reminded him that feelings and thoughts on ecstasy were super magnified, that was he was feeling right now would not necessarily be what he would feel tomorrow, or the next day. He dismissed it; it all felt so real. The most real thing that he'd ever felt, in fact.

Which is why he felt awful about lying.

Holtby had been trying to avoid - well, not to _avoid_ Marc, per se. Just keep things friendly and professional. But that had been increasingly difficult; they somehow managed to touch each other in some capacity every time they saw each other, progressively winding Holtby up ever tighter. Their tryst was a one-time thing, he kept telling himself, and was done out of necessity; the Payment had required it, right?

But he couldn't stop thinking about that night. The truth was, his marriage had been difficult for some time. Two kids under the age of five had killed their sex life. Braden loved his kids fiercely, but his relationship with his wife had suffered for it. She was always tired, and how could he blame her for that? But his idea of fun was still going out and dancing with her, and hers was now staying in bed and reading a book.

So he finally told Marc his wife had given him permission for them to fuck. Just for Marc-Andre; a "hall pass" of sorts. Holtby half didn't expect for it to work. Marc-Andre was the king of pranks, and had gotten pretty adept at telling when people were lying to him, since everyone was always trying to get him back. But maybe Braden was better at lying than he thought; Marc hadn't questioned it. Not then, and not after they spent all day together, most of it with Braden inside of Marc.

Women, puck bunnies, had always approached him, but Braden had never thought about cheating on his wife. Not til now. The opportunity to be authentic with someone, someone who knew what he was going through as an NHL goalie, and someone who was enthusiastic in bed and wanted him just as bad as he wanted them...right now, it was an irresistible combination. The _gay_ thing was a factor was well, something new and exciting and exotic (although Braden would never use that term out loud; Marc wasn't a zoo animal). A break from the ordinary in every possible way.

Braden snuck his hand under Marc-Andre's shirt, laying a flat hand on his stomach. Unlike most of today, they were clothed, laying in bed, but not in either of theirs; Carey Price had supplied the molly, and then they'd crashed on his bed. Carey had snuggled along with them for awhile, the three of them making a giant cuddle pile of goalie until Henrik Lundqvist showed up, which immediately prickled Price. Those two had been arguing on and off for some time, but now when Braden peeked over at them on the couch, somehow they'd gotten naked and were intensely focused on only each other. The classic love-hate relationship, Braden figured.

"Bray," Marc whispered; they had transformed over the course of the day from calling each other _Dolphin_ and _McCoy_ to _Marc_ and _Bray._ Bray, of all things; Holtby normally hated that shortening, but from Fleury it just seemed endearing. "Bray, what are you thinking of?"

"You," Braden answered, truthfully. He slid his nose into Marc-Andre's hair, short and fine, taking a deep breath. He smelled cologne and sweat and muskiness. "Thinking of...it's like, your entire body flushes red when you're turned on. And how your toes curl when something is really good. Or you make these little _oh_ sounds when you get close." Braden slid his face down, nuzzling at the dark reddish-purplish spot on Fleury's shoulder. "And how I did this. Because you're mine this weekend."

__"You're so bitey," Marc laughed, his tone playfully scolding. "Oh! You know what we should do?"_ _

__"What?"_ _

__"Let's play Truth or Dare."_ _

__Holtby laughed. Normally the thought would be somewhat horrifying, but tonight he wanted to tell all of his secrets to Marc-Andre. "Okay. But I start. Truth or dare?"_ _

__"Mmm, dare."_ _

__"Kiss me."_ _

__Fleury smirked, slithering up to Braden's mouth. "Starting off easy?" He cupped Holtby's mouth to bring him in for a kiss. Braden could taste orange juice and ash in Marc-Andre's mouth, from the joint they'd smoked earlier. Kissing on molly was amazing. Everything was heightened; Marc's lips felt so soft, and Braden felt like he was going to burst with how hard he loved everything about the new Golden Knight. His lips were getting chapped due to how much work they'd had today between the pair, but even that was awesome, with new tingly sensations when Fleury's tongue touched them._ _

__"My turn," Marc murmured against his mouth once the kiss broke. "Truth or dare?"_ _

__"Truth."_ _

__"Who on the Caps would you fuck, if you had to pick one?"_ _

__"Aw jeez." Braden rolled his eyes to the ceiling, cataloguing his teammates. "Well, Nicky Backstrom would probably be the most considerate in bed. He's seems like a real take-care-of-you kinda dude. But he's not really my type, so...I dunno, Dale?"_ _

__"Oh yes, I know all of your Capitals nicknames to know who that is."_ _

"Burakovsky. Who would _you_ bang?"

__"Well, I fucked Nisky once."_ _

__"What!" Braden hooted, eyes widening. "Are you serious?"_ _

__Marc smirked. "I mean, he was between girlfriends, and frustrated, and...it was a one time thing. He was a little drunk. And then we act like it never happened, and now he is married."_ _

__"I never knew he wasn't straight."_ _

__"I have a knack for turning straight boys gay, no?" Fleury winked, reaching up to smooth his hand down Holtby's cheek._ _

__Braden turned his head to kiss Marc-Andre's palm, chuckling. "Hey now...well, I guess you're not wrong. Okay, my go. Truth or dare?"_ _

__"I guess...truth."_ _

__"What's something none of your teammates know about you?"_ _

"Ooh." Marc squinted. "No _current_ teammates?"

__"Right."_ _

__"Sometimes, I like to wear makeup." Marc-Andre had a feeling that Braden would go crazy with this new piece of information, and he did not disappoint. In fact, he looked delighted._ _

_"What?_ Like...you're a drag queen?"

__"No!" Fleury shook his head emphatically. "No, a drag queen is like...you are trying to become lady. I'm not trying to do that. I just like to look pretty, sometimes. But still a man."_ _

__"Oh, fuck, I wish I could see that."_ _

__"Well, there is a picture of me online somewhere. Duper, uh, Pascal Dupuis, he used to be on team, found out, bet me to wear eyeliner during practice. So I did, and of course, pictures. But I swore him to secrecy that I liked it. Everyone just thought I lost a bet." Fleury sat up a little, his eyes scanning the room. "If you really want to see it, Showcase might have some makeup. He goes further than me. He likes, you know, heels and panties and shit."_ _

"Oh my God." Braden looked like he was about to have an orgasm with this influx of delightful new information, coupled with the drugs still humming through his brain. "That is amazing. _This is amaaaaazing!"_

__"Oh, yes, there!" Marc untangled himself from Braden's grasp, and Holtby watched as he crept closer to the couple on the couch. They were still engrossed in each other; Henrik had one hand wrapped around both of their cocks and was stroking._ _

So, neither noticed as Fleury snagged a bag on the floor, opening it and starting to dig through it. He threw out a few pairs of panties, the kind of shit Braden used to buy for his wife; a few were lacy and chaste, a couple of them see-through and slutty. Marc was examining a few shades of lipstick, making a face, and tossing them out too, along with a few other pieces of makeup. Finally, he seemed satisfied, zipping the bag up and keeping it with him as he stood. _Let's go,_ he mouthed to the Capital, discretely waving him over.

__Braden tried to be quiet, but he probably didn't need to make the effort; as he and Marc closed the door behind them, neither man on the couch had looked anywhere but the other one._ _

__Both men's rooms were in the next building over, so they moved quickly, Braden following along, looking positively giddy. As they passed outside, tied to one of the support beams in the outside patio between buildings was Petr Mrazek._ _

__"Hey!" Petr screamed when he saw the pair. "Fleury! I know you're fuckin' behind this somehow! Fuck you, get me loose!"_ _

Marc-Andre stopped in his tracks, tilting his head towards Mrazek. _"Moi?"_ he said, in an exaggeratedly French accent.

__"Yes, you! You haven't liked me since I rejected your dick a few years ago. Get me offa this thing!"_ _

__Fleury reared back like he'd been slapped, the shock evident on his face at the accusation, but it quickly smoothed out to a smirk. "Aw, gee, look at the time." Marc held up his bare wrist, pretending to look at a watch. "Is so late! So sorry, I have appointment with someone that didn't reject my dick, soooo..."_ _

__"Don't you dare - "_ _

__"But you're a goalie, you can like, contort yourself out of those flimsy ropes, no? I would be ruining your fun if I helped." Without another word, Marc opened the door to their building and disappeared inside. They could hear Mrazek's screams of rage before the door closed, cutting them off._ _

__"Maybe we should - "_ _

__"No, that's the molly talking." Marc grinned. "I know you love everyone right now, but that guy is a real asshole and whatever he did, he probably deserved it. It wasn't me, I swear. But I sort of wish it was."_ _

__"He's always been okay to me," Braden said, but quickly forgot about Petr as they got to Fleury's room. He stood right behind Marc as the French Canadian fumbled for his keys, and Holtby took the opportunity to bury his face into Marc's neck again. The smell was irresistible._ _

__"I can't wait," he squeaked out, giddy, as Fleury opened the door. "Can't wait. Marc, get pretty for me?"_ _

__"Bed," ordered Marc-Andre, fumbling with his phone. A moment later, music started playing from the Bluetooth speaker on the side table. It was flowy with lots of synth and Braden fell backwards on the mattress, allowing himself to be mesmerized by the sounds._ _

__Music was awesome on molly. Fucking was awesome on molly. Everything was awesome on molly!_ _

__"I know," Marc agreed from where he had retreated, to the bathroom, and Braden wasn't sure how much of that he said out loud or not._ _

__Holtby wasn't sure how much time had passed, being content with waving his hands in the air to the beat, and making shapes with his fingers. He could really feel the music; it was almost like it was part of him. So he blinked in surprise as Marc-Andre appeared in front of him again. It had seemingly only been moments but based on Marc's face, Braden knew it had been longer._ _

Fleury had been right; the makeup effect wasn't girly so much as simply _pretty._ It was very obvious he was still a man and wasn't trying to be otherwise, but the lines on his jaw and cheekbones had been softened, and somehow his freckles were accentuated. He looked younger, more petite. His mouth had a touch of unnatural redness to it, but not garishly so. Where Braden was really drawn to, however, were his eyes. Marc's already lengthy lashes were drawn out and now almost obscenely long, and his eyes were highlighted by liner.

__"Oh, wow. Oh, fuck, Marc, that is really hot." Braden shifted on the bed, finding himself half-hard from the sight._ _

__Marc smiled brilliantly, appreciative. "Thanks. I...I wasn't sure how you'd like it. And these were in the bag, too. I didn't even notice." He held out a hand, and there were a variety of colors of edible body paints. "They could be fun? Maybe we paint something on ourselves and then lick it off each other?"_ _

__"Ooh, I want the blue and red." Marc handed them over to Braden, keeping the green and yellow for himself, and turned around so his artwork would be a surprise._ _

__Braden's chest was too hairy for any sort of body paint, so he wiggled out of his shorts, picked the underside of his thigh. Still not hairless, but better than the chest. He tried to draw a Washington Capitals logo, biting his lip to keep from laughing. The cool liquid of the body paint was an interesting sensation, almost ticklish._ _

__"Are you done?" Marc asked, his back still turned. Braden noticed at some point he'd taken off his shirt._ _

__"Almost...okay....there. Turn."_ _

__Marc-Andre spun, holding his arms out in a 'ta-dah!' manner. There was a heart drawn around his belly button, and then spiraling up his smooth chest was green body paint, meant to look like vines, with little yellow flowers periodically popping out. The vines finished and curled around his nipples._ _

__"Is that supposed to be your logo?" Fleury asked, smirking, staring at Braden's thigh. "At least you're good at goaltending. You weren't destined to be artist."_ _

__Holtby scooted to the edge of the bed and grabbed Marc's hips, yanking him close to bury his mouth into the heart drawn around his belly button. He licked upwards, watching the green paint disappear after his tongue, gratified to hear Fleury's groan, feel the other man's fingers bury into his long hair. He reached the top of the vines by his nipples, swiped his tongue wetly to clean up the rest of the body pain and scraped his teeth down Marc's nipples to catch the last of the color, one after the other._ _

__Fleury urged his face skywards, towards his own, and Braden felt a thrill go through him at the sight of the red, contoured mouth smiling down at him. Marc's lips felt a little tacky as they kissed, and when Braden pulled away and touched his own mouth, it was a little redder._ _

Holtby bumped his other hand into Marc-Andre's crotch, lightly exploring. _Shit._ Nothing. Marc had warned him, before they rolled, that he usually couldn't get hard on ecstasy. Braden was having no problems in that department and it felt strange to be putting the moves on a man who wasn't visibly turned on.

__"I'll take care of you," Marc promised, as if he read Braden's mind. "Just because I'm not hard, doesn't mean I don't find all of this incredibly hot. Really." Fleury pushed the Cap back on the bed, looking thoughtful. "Do you trust me?"_ _

__"What?"_ _

__"Do you trust me?" Marc leaned closer, smiling. "Bray, I'm going to make you feel so good. But you have to trust me."_ _

__"Okay." And Braden did trust Marc; it was probably the molly talking, but he was okay with anything Fleury wanted to do, felt a bubble of excitement at what his words might mean._ _

__His response was rewarded with a grin, and Marc-Andre knelt to regard the Capitals logo on his thigh. "This is how you know I really do love you," he grumbled, tracing the tip of his tongue along the logo, a touch which made Braden shiver._ _

__Holtby sank backward on the bed as Fleury's tongue worked to erase the paint. Periodically, his mouth would go high, much too high from where the paint was, to pull his boxers aside, lap at his balls for a moment before right back down to the logo. Finally, the logo was erased, and Marc stepped aside to the end table. Braden took the opportunity to push his boxers off, staring at the red lip marks trailing from his inner thighs to his groin._ _

__Marc came back with lube and a warning. "Remember," he said, "you trust me."_ _

__"I do," Braden promised as Fleury coated his fingers._ _

__"I want you to relax," Marc murmured, going to his knees and kissing the head of Braden's cock. "Focus in on the music."_ _

__"Uh huh." Braden wasn't quite sure why he needed to relax, at least not at first; Marc-Andre was giving him an excellent blowjob, the ecstasy making everything feel that much better. He was just about to reach down, grab Marc's head, when he figured out what the command was for. Fleury had two fingers trailing down his balls and between his cheeks._ _

__"Whoa," he called out at the first, lube-slicked touch, gentle against his opening. He'd never really had an interest in bottoming, or having anything inside of him...to be honest, it had always been a little scary. Under normal circumstances he would have shot up, pushed Marc away. Now, however, he just murmured a little protest, staring wide-eyed at the other goalie._ _

__"Shhh," Fleury murmured against his cock, making an interesting vibration. "You said you trusted me. If you're ever gonna do this, make it be tonight. And if you totally hate it, we will never do again. Promise. Just my fingers, Bray."_ _

__"One finger."_ _

__"Maybe two. And not until you're ready. See?" Marc hadn't even started to push, content for the moment to just rub his lubed fingers around, making sure everything was slick. He grabbed for the lube again, for a fresh coat, and went back down on Braden's cock, sucking and licking while his fingers worked._ _

__Holtby sank back down against the comforter, trying to lose himself in the music, in the warm wet heat against his shaft. Fleury stopped again, went back for more lube, and Braden realized that Fleury was inside now, just the barest of fingertips, going slow, so slow. Every time Marc pulled off, either because Braden was getting close to coming, or because he needed more lube, that he was just a little deeper._ _

__"You're doing so good," Marc praised. "Just breathe, deep breaths..."_ _

__Braden made a squeak as Fleury's finger pushed, slowly, but steadily, finally up to the joint. "How's that feel?"_ _

__"Mmm," Holtby grunted, noncommittal. It felt...odd, sort of burning, not the best thing he'd ever done -_ _

_"Oh."_ Braden snorted air out of his nose, Marc's finger finding his prostate and gently stroking downward. "That - that - oh."

"Yes, _that,"_ Braden realized Marc-Andre was stifling a chuckle. He continued to stroke his finger, gently, slowly. "Breathe, Bray."

Braden realized he'd sucked in a breath and was holding it, let it all out in one shaky _whoosh._ There was a warm, pleasurable buzz flooding out from his midsection, and he wasn't sure if it was the drugs or Marc's finger or both, but he didn't care. Something wet rolled towards his belly button, pooled there, and he noticed he was leaking pre-come in a gush, more than he'd ever done before.

__Fleury noticed as well, bending his head to lick it up, his finger never stopping. Marc trailed his tongue back from the belly button and up Braden's cock, the twin sensations breaking something inside of him. "More," he heard himself begging. "Please."_ _

__He hissed in a breath while Marc added another finger, which prompted another admonishment to relax. Only when Braden did so did Fleury curl both fingers, and it was like a little bolt of lightning flashed through his cock. "Oh fuck," Holtby whimpered._ _

__Marc-Andre made a satisfied noise and started stroking with his other hand, holding Braden's shaft steady so he could start sucking again. The two fingers worked ever so slightly faster, pressed harder, as Marc's jaw moved faster as well, up and down._ _

__Between the two sensations which merged into one big pleasurable glow, Braden growled and snarled and bucked up and came, hard and long, enough to leave him a boneless slump on the bed._ _

__He stared at the ceiling with squinted, half-closed eyes, wincing a little as Fleury slowly withdrew his fingers. Marc's face appeared in his vision a moment later, his eye makeup fuzzy and smeared, one red streak from his mouth to his chin._ _

__"Jesus you're fucking hot." Braden reached up to grab the other goalie, crushed his mouth against Marc's, and didn't let him go for a long time._ _

__"I'm gonna yell at Showcase for not buying stay-put makeup," Marc mumbled as they broke apart._ _

__Braden smirked, swiping his thumb along the lipstick smear. "I think it's kinda hot. Your makeup is all smeared because of my dick in your mouth. Yeah, I could get used to that."_ _

__"I bet you could. I go wipe this off now," Marc pulled away, trotting to the bathroom. "But I'm glad you liked."_ _

__Braden was fast asleep by the time Marc-Andre got back to bed. Fleury shucked off his shorts, pulling the covers around them both and flicking off the light. The ecstasy was starting to wear off and he wanted nothing more than to sleep off the comedown with Braden._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The referenced photo of Marc-Andre wearing eyeliner definitely exists and you should look it up.


	11. Carey Price / Henrik Lundqvist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings : Drug use ahoy.
> 
> These guys use nicknames in this chapter, Showcase (Carey Price) and Shredder (Henrik Lundqvist).

"I fucking hate you." Carey Price tilted his head down at the man he was straddling. "You know that, right?"

"You tell me every year," Henrik Lundqvist shot back, "And yet, every year you're here. On top of me. Begging to get fucked." He gently flicked his thumb against Carey's cock, half-hard; both men were naked, laying on the couch in Carey's room. Price's face was streaked with white swirls from the coke, and Lundqvist was sure he looked just about the same.

"Yeah, well, _you_ can get fucked."

"Oh, don't be like that," Henrik purred back. He had long since stopped trying to figure Carey out. He knew Price did not particularly like him, but every year the euphoria and braggadocio of the cocaine seemed to magnetically attract the two together. Henrik could do without the _ugh!_ that Carey muttered every morning the two woke up together, grumbling and snarling until they were no longer in each other's company, but the sex kept bringing him back. Price liked to ride Henrik like he was a horse in those rodeo events that he did. And Henrik liked that _a lot._

So, here he was.

But he really, really needed another bump to put up with Carey's shit. "You got more? At least you brought good shit this year. Two years ago I could barely get it up with whatever shit coke you had."

"It wasn't the coke that broke your dick, you fucking fiend," Price snorted, bending to pick up one of the tiny Ziplock baggies from the floor next to them. "Don't go getting addicted now, that will really ruin your game. Actually, come to think of it...yes, _please_ have another line, Shredder. Have as many as you want. All year long."

Carey dropped the bag on Henrik's chest, but Lundqvist was no longer paying attention as Price continued to ramble. "...is that what happened this past year? I mean, you were really terrible like, half the season - "

"Is that...women's panties?" Two pairs were laying close to the baggies that Carey had just rummaged through, drawing Lundqvist's eye.

"Fucking shit," Carey muttered, twisting his head to look so fast it almost knocked him off balance. "Uh, yes, they are. Ladies give them to me. It's pretty crazy, eh?"

"Bullshit they do. I think those are _yours."_ Henrik was lighting up like a Christmas tree, and Carey instinctively knew that nothing was going to persuade him away from this.

"Goddamn fucking Fleury - I swear, if you say anything - "

"Åh Herre Gud," Lundqvist murmured. "You know, I shouldn't be surprised. You would be fond of dress up."

Carey drew a sharp intake of breath, face contorted in a scowl to snarl some sort of epitath, but Henrik interrupted quickly. "That's not a _bad_ thing, Pricey."

"Don't call me Pricey," Carey sulked. "You don't get to call me Pricey. You call me Showcase."

"Well, _Showcase,_ I never said it was a bad thing. I respect a man that knows what he likes, even if it's a bit outside the norm."

Carey huffed, but looked a little more placated.

"In fact...shit, I'd love to see you in them." Henrik smirked, wrapping long fingers around Price's cock as he did so, eliciting a shudder from the Canadien. "Actually, I'd love to _fuck you_ in them."

"Why should you get to see them?"

"Oh, don't act like you don't find that hot." Lundqvist lifted his torso up until he was pressed to Carey's chest, nuzzling the curve of his jaw. "That's why you have them, isn't it? So you can strut around in those frills and silk until some guy throws you down and pulls your panties aside to fuck you."

Price gawked down at the Ranger, who looked immensely pleased at having drawn that expression from the other man. "It's true, isn't it?" Lundqvist continued. "So let me be that guy."

"Fuck," Carey muttered under his breath. Part of him didn't want to give the Swede the satisfaction, but there was a thrum in his gut, hard to ignore, that wanted it more than anything else. It was the fucking cocaine, he knew. He really needed to stop snorting around Lundqvist.

Next year, Price decided. This year, on the other hand... "Fine. You better be able to keep it up, limp dick." It was a baseless insult; Carey shifted, felt Henrik's dick brush against his asscrack. He was hard as a rock, already.

"I'm going to fucking wreck you," Lundqvist growled softly. For anyone else, this might be off-putting, but Henrik knew Carey would love it, saw the Canadiens' face flush in confirmation as he scrambled off the couch.

"Bring it." Price bent down, grabbing the panties and shoving them into a large tote bag. "Wait here," he said, sweeping into the bathroom and shutting the door firmly.

Like Henrik had any other choice. Like Henrik could have left even if he wanted to, naked and hard and covered in coke dust.

Carey hadn't been gone more than 15 seconds before Lundqvist shifted, restless, the drugs sapping his patience. He wanted everything and he wanted it now and he shouldn't have to wait. "Hurry up," he grumbled to the closed door, hissing when there was no answer. His eyes fell upon the baggie perched on his chest. There, finally, was a good answer for the excruciating boredom, temporary as it might be.

Lundqvist was just finishing a line, utilizing a side table and a mirror, when Carey burst out of the bathroom, looking pleased with himself. More pleased than he usually looked, anyway. He wasn't just wearing panties (Carey had chosen the black pair; bikini-cut, the top rimmed with lace and a little bow in front, the delicate material bulging in front from the weight of his hard-on) but had decided to go the distance with a matching garter, attached onto thigh high stockings and shiny black heels. Very high heels.

From the top up, Carey was all man : no makeup, no bra, no jewelry or any delicate touches at all. He crossed his arms, a masculine swagger. But below the belt was all feminine. The dichotomy was blowing Hank's mind, and he was pretty sure that Price could tell, his smirk getting sharper. "You like what you see, old man?"

Lundqvist pushed off the couch, aggressively stalking over to the other goalie. "Well, _Carey,"_ he said, emphasizing the goalie's first name in a way that made it obvious he was pointing out it was also a woman's name, "It's not bad. But you'll look better with my dick inside you."

"Promises, promises." Price straightened up, clicking a heel on the ground. Even without heels, Carey was the taller of the two; now he was _much_ taller.

"Bend over for me."

"Feeling a little tiny?" Carey asked, playful, but did as requested. He turned around, arching his back to stick out his ass, already curved high due to the heels, and slowly dropped his chest.

Truth be told, Henrik was feeling short, and he wanted to find a way to even the playing field a little. This would do nicely, and give him a good view to boot. He sidled up, cupping Carey's ass, sliding his fingers along the lace and silk, gently snapping one of the garter straps.

"You just going to touch the lingerie, or what?"

Lundqvist snapped the garter strap again, harder this time, making a satisfying snick while Price hissed. "It's pretty fucking sexy," Hank admitted, his hand sliding to the bulge in front of the panties. "I didn't figure they made this stuff in your size."

"Money will get you anything," Carey informed him, suddenly pushing Henrik's hand away and moving - _sashaying_ \- over to the bed. He sat on the edge, legs splayed open, almost obscenely. He propped his arms behind him on the bed, chest puffed out, and lifted an eyebrow. It was an invitation - no, Henrik thought.

It was a challenge.

Lundqvist moved over to the bed, positioning himself between Price's legs and sinking to his knees. Sometimes it was a bit of a power struggle between the two over who would blow who first, but not tonight. Carey's cock strained against the black panties, an obvious outline against the soft silk that Henrik found irresistable. He drew his nose along the outline, pulling the bikini down just enough to expose the tip and attached his mouth to the underside, sucking gently. As he lapped at the sensitive area, his tongue kept finding the lacy edges of the panties until they were wet, almost soaked through.

"Shredder," Carey hissed out, his voice nearly cracking, sounding almost angry. Price didn't like to beg, Henrik knew, and he was close to doing so. Lundqvist decided to throw him a lifeline.

"Yeah, Carey? What do you want?"

"You fucking know," came the snarled reply.

"Tell me."

There was an irritated growl. "Don't just - not just the tip - fucking take it. Take it in your mouth and _suck it."_

Henrik flicked his eyes upwards, enjoying the scowl on Price's face. "That language is very unladylike," he admonished, and the moment that Carey opened his mouth to reply, he finally did as requested; yanking down the panties so hard he felt the fabric creak to its full stretchiness, deep-throating Price with one smooth motion. It strangled any response from the Canadien, who choked on his retort.

"Fucking finally," he breathed out, reaching down to curl his fingers into Henrik's hair, which Lundqvist immediately swatted away before going back down on Carey.

Normally, Henrik would blow Price until he came, and then fuck him. Carey was much sweeter, more pliable and agreeable, once he'd had an orgasm. _Such a baby,_ Henrik thought. But the thought of fucking Price and having him come in the black silk panties came unbidden to Lundqvist, and he couldn't shake the thought from his brain.

Well then. It was decided.

"Hey," Carey protested when Henrik pulled his mouth away. "What - "

"Don't worry, you'll still come. Just not yet." Lundqvist gently pulled the bikini back up, patting it into place to cover Carey's length, then moved down to pull the bottom part aside. With his other hand, he pressed his thumb against Price's entrance, sucking his breath in at what he found.

"Showcase - are you already lubed up?"

"I did it while I was in the bathroom. You always do a shit job at it."

"That eager to get fucked, huh?"

Carey scowled. "No, I told you, you're fucking terrible at it."

"Uh huh." Henrik just smirked, his tone clearly indicating he didn't believe the other man, something he knew would drive Price crazy. He spit into his palm and stroked himself, wanting a little extra lube than what was already provided. 

"You're a real bitch, you know that?"

"Oh, shush," Lundqvist admonished, bending down to kiss Carey. He knew, based off Price's current mood, that he was going to get bit - Carey got bitey when he was annoyed. But then, he kind of liked that. He felt a sharp pain as Price sucked his lip into his mouth, bit down hard enough to bleed, which was soothed over with a lapping tongue moments later.

Without breaking the kiss, he guided himself between Carey's thighs, fumbling sightlessly to pull aside the panties again before pressing inside. Carey had done a good job of lubing himself up and Henrik pushed, slowly but steadily until he was fully seated inside, groaning into the other man's mouth.

"Fuck," he muttered, but with his mouth still attached to Price's it came out as more of a strange groan. Carey wrapped his legs around Henrik's waist, urging him closer. His heels dug into the Ranger's lower back, one point pressed almost painfully into the skin. It skidded across the soft flesh when Hank started to thrust, not bothering to go slow at first, to let Carey get used to it. Their mouths jarred apart from the kiss at each hard thrust.

"Touch me," Carey whined, and when no help was forthcoming he reached down, started to do it himself, got his hand slapped away. "Oh, for fuck's - "

"Just wait," Henrik growled. He lifted his chest from where it was pressed against Carey's, standing up straight now. The new angle allowed him to shift his hips and aim for the other man's prostate, which he found quickly, judging by the fresh whimpers out of the other man.

One of Carey's heeled feet had uncurled from around Henrik's back, was swinging through empty air with each hard thrust, and Lundqvist grabbed it with a free hand, pulled it close. He licked the top of Price's foot, everything that wasn't inside the shiny black shoe, before nudging the heel off. It fell to the ground with a loud _thunk_ and Hank curled a wet tongue around the big toe, scraping his teeth along the footpad.

Carey made a surprised squeak, fists curling into balls. "Shredder, if you don't touch me soon - "

In response, Henrik nipped Price's foot, but did as requested. He slid his hand into the panties, already stretched taut as they were pushed aside for access, and stroked, firmly and quickly, the exact pace he knew the Canadien preferred.

"Oh, fuck," Carey responded, jerking his hips into the touch for just a few moments before it pushed him over. Come started to leak and drip from the panties onto Carey's stomach, and a growing wet spot formed on the front of the soft silk. The sight was enough to send Lundqvist over with just a few more hard thrusts, Price's toes still in his mouth.

Lundqvist had barely finished up, just starting to slump down, when Carey slid his foot out of his mouth and kicked him roundly in the jaw. "What the fuck?!" Henrik growled, jerking away and out of Carey as he stepped back.

"You ruined my panties." Price looked mildly irritated, but the annoyance was smoothed over by the fresh orgasm. "You know I can't just go buy this shit off the shelf, right?"

Henrik rubbed his jawline. By now, his own come was dribbling out between Carey's legs, trickling down his thighs and forming another wet spot. _Worth it,_ he thought. "You make like, 6 mill a year? Deal with it."

"Seven," Price corrected him, looking resigned now. He flipped off his other high heel and yanked off the soiled panties, throwing them at the Ranger. "Fine. Here, weirdo. You can take those home and smell them or whatever you want to do."

Henrik snatched them out of mid-air, goalie instincts kicking in, but discarded them to the floor a moment later to glomp on top of Carey, kissing his neck. "Let's take a nap and then fuck again, huh?"

"Mmm," Carey grunted, non-commital, turning away from Henrik's kisses. 

"You're terrible at pretending you don't want this shit. Tell you what." Lundqvist lowered his voice, almost conspiratorially, smirking at the Canadien. "I know you brought that fucking huge butt plug again this year. You get stuffed with that and then I'll ride you."

Carey finally turned his face back towards Lundqvist, eyes narrowing. "Yeah?"

"Uh huh. It'll be so good, Pricey."

_"Showcase,"_ Carey bit back, but softened a moment later, reluctantly returning a kiss. "Alright. But nap first. Set an alarm."

"Already on it."

"You're good for something, I guess." Carey wiggled up to the pillows, sinking diagonally across the bed, exhausted for the moment.

"You'll see what I'm good for soon enough." Alarm set, Henrik curled up to the other man, snuggling close. Carey accepted the cuddles without too much fuss, shifting and fidgeting until he got comfortable, finally falling into a temporary doze. It was still a long night ahead.


End file.
